


Crossed by Magnus

by memai, stressed_moth



Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Canon Divergence, Chapter count subject to change, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Gen, M/M, Mention of abuse, Not Canon Compliant, Reluctant Dovahkiin | Dragonborn, Slow Romance, personal interpretation of quest events
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-09
Updated: 2021-02-27
Packaged: 2021-03-07 22:36:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 52,796
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26915251
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/memai/pseuds/memai, https://archiveofourown.org/users/stressed_moth/pseuds/stressed_moth
Summary: Despite the rising tension in Skyrim, the College of Winterhold still plays host to a series of magical adventures, more so with the arrival of its newest Nord apprentice, Onmund. But he soon learns that his call to the college wasn’t to answer his destiny, but that of the Dragonborn’s as well.Original Character x Onmund. Fluff, fun and a little bit of angst. Canon can and will be bent.
Relationships: Female Dovahkiin | Dragonborn/Farkas, Hadvar/Ralof (mentioned), Onmund (Elder Scrolls)/Original Character(s)
Comments: 67
Kudos: 76





	1. Into the Night

**Author's Note:**

> This has been in the work for some time now, and this wouldn't have come about without the push I needed from my wonderful friends! I'd like to thank Moth for beta-reading my fic, as well as Jack and Daisy for their endless encouragement, love and support. And to my readers, if you like anything, and I mean anything, about this fic, please let me know in the comments (or leave a kudos)

The dead of an Eastmarch night brought on icy winds that cried like ghosts from the grave. No sensible Nord dared to venture out into the storm, not when the skies howled like the dead. Tattered banners of old holds flapped helplessly in the wind, and boats rocked uncomfortably on the water’s surface. This was a night that set the stories of countless horrifying tales told around a campfire, a night mothers used to scare their children out of bad behaviors.

But for some, this was the only night they would make their escape. A single lamp lit the way for a lonely traveler. Nothing so unassuming that it would catch the eye of the patrolling soldiers-- a boy no older than twenty-one, clutching tightly onto a haphazardly drawn map to Winterhold. His Nordic blood kept him from freezing, but even he couldn’t help the chills down his spine, all frayed nerves and anxious hope. And maybe the cold too.

He took that moment to pause, seeking small respite against the trunk of a large tree. He looked behind him, pleased that the faint outline of his village was no longer in sight. He knew now that he was far away enough that no one would track him. But even still, his heart was disquiet.

Through thick, woolen gloves, he felt around his neck for a small inconspicuous amulet of Talos. He began a prayer: “Oh Talos, son of man, lead me to where I need to go, show me a path to where I know I need to be...”

He took one breath, watched it dance into the cold air, and then took another. And by the grace of the Divines, the wind had stopped. He saw the opportunity and carried on with a hurried pace, eager to put more distance between himself and the voices that were calling out to him.

“Onmund! Onmund!” He could hear his family cry, so far off in the distance, they sounded like a barely-remembered dream, “Onmund, come home lad!”

“Onmund!”

No. Not again. Not ever.

No more getting hit over the head at the talk of magic. No more being threatened to be put out into the snow if he read another book about it. No more arguments about who he wanted to be, who he really truly was deep down inside.

No more. 

The boy, Onmund, gently caressed his still bruised cheek, only a few hours fresh, a bitter reminder of why he left the way he did. 

As he pressed on into that terrible night, he recited a prayer in the Nordic tongue: _Oh Talos Son of Men, please give me strength to carry on this burden, I ask not for glory nor gain, simply courage to do what I must._

In the dead of an Eastmarch night, Onmund knew that he was meant for something greater, and he knew he would find it in the hallowed halls of the College of Winterhold. He just had to keep pressing northward, no matter what.

In a cramped family home, the fireplace was lit, tea was served with sweet flowers and herbs, but the tension that hung heavy in the air suffocated everyone in it.

A woman cried into an embroidered handkerchief, adorned with _rosemaling_ and Nordic proverbs, dabbing away at her face as she choked out another sob. Her fine blonde hair began to fray out of the intricate sleeping braids she wore, nightgown stained with a mother’s tears.

“Why? Why did he leave?” she sobbed, her lips quivering with impossible grief as she struggled to get her words out, “Oh, my poor Onmund, why…”

Her daughter, Elsie, was a young girl with the same head of blonde hair. And though she was only a young girl of fifteen, had enough kindness in her heart to pour her mother a cup of tea. She patted her mother gently on the shoulder, a small attempt at comforting the aching wound in her heart.

“Ma,” Elsie soothed, “Ma, it’s alright, Pa and Svana are out looking for him, he can’t be that far gone, right?”

The mother wiped her tears away, deep blue eyes tinged red with grief. She looked at her youngest and broke out into a sad smile, “Oh, Elsie… you always look on the brighter side of things, don’t you?” She took the cup of tea offered, her plump fingers tracing the painted patterns on the surface, “Thank you, dearest.”

“Things will be alright,” Elsie offered the brightest smile she could.

But her mother sighed and shook her head, “This shouldn’t have happened.”

Elsie looked down and away, “You think Onmund’s really a mage?”

“It doesn’t matter _what_ Onmund is, what matters is he’s family and he should never be made to feel that way in his own home,” she sighed, “Talos above, I should’ve said something sooner, should’ve told him--”

But before she could get her words out, the front door of their home burst open.

“Svana!” they both called.

The eldest of the family was a large, burly woman. Her arms were as thick as logs and just as strong, her brown hair was braided sensibly away from her face, and all she had to wear while on her desperate search was a nightgown and several layers of furs.

“No sign of him,” Svana reported, her words hung heavy and sad, “He’s gone.”

Their mother’s hands trembled, so too, her lips, as she blubbered out, “Gone? Gone! How could that be?”

For a woman of Svana’s size, she felt incredibly small under the gaze of her mother’s anguish. She knitted her hands together tightly, and her shoulders hunched down in some attempt to hide herself away from the shame of failure.

“We went as far as the bridge, the edge of the mountains, even the main roads,” Svana’s voice buckled under the strain, “We asked the farmers, the millers, but nothing-- the storm blew away any tracks he might have left.”

Her next words were final, “He’s gone, Ma.”

Her mother stayed quiet for a time, each second that passed grew heavier than the last. And then, “Where’s your father?”

Svana had no other choice but to answer, “He’s going to Windhelm to see if he made it there.”

Silence.

Svana pressed on, “I… I don’t know if this will help, but maybe he went to see Oma in Darkwater Crossing. She’s a healer, that’s a kind of mage, isn’t it?”

More silence.

Svana shifted her weight uncomfortably, “I’m going to get my gear, and I’m going to start my search there.”

And then the silence broke by the shattering of a tea cup, breaking into just as many pieces as her mother’s heart did. She wailed into the night, her tears flowing freely down her round, red face. Elsie wasted no time, she reached for her mother’s handkerchief and began dabbing away at her tears, shushing her and stroking her hair in calming motions.

Svana reached a hand out, as though to brush her fingers against her mother’s cheek to wipe away her tears, but was stopped when Elsie’s gaze met hers, icy and cold, “Don’t.”

“But…”

“You punched him,” Elsie furrowed her brows in anger, “You punched him and said you’d do it again if he spoke of magic.”

“I didn’t--”

“Just get your gear, and go.”

Svana swallowed a difficult lump in her throat, realization setting in as her little sister spoke. She was just as much to blame for this, she knew. Svana wasn’t too proud to admit her failures.

She nodded at Elsie’s words, still too ashamed to meet her sister’s gaze.

“I’ll… I’ll go get my things now,” but before she left, “Elsie--”

“What, Svana?” Her tone was curt, sharp and disappointed.

Gods, why was this so hard? “Take care of Ma while I’m gone.”

As she excused herself awkwardly to her room, she pulled out practical clothing and tools, what money she had saved up, bits of food and treats for the road. She was as much to blame for this… and no matter what, she would bring Onmund back. She would set this right.

She had to. For all she knew, that was the only way she could redeem herself in the eyes of her family.

Svana made her way to the stables and gave a quiet greeting to the old nag that her family had kept for farmwork. It’d be too long a journey to Darkwater Crossing by foot, and with the way the winds howled mercilessly into the night, it’d do to have some companionship.

“Oh Talos, son of Man,” she prayed as she mounted the poor, tired beast, “Grant me the guidance to where I know I need to go.”

It wouldn’t be long before she began her journey into the darkness of the night. Shor’s blood, she hoped he was with _Oma_...

Darkwater Crossing was as plain a village as it had ever been. Inconspicuous, small, out of the way, perfect to hide out from. It had been days since his men had been on the roads and on the run, what a relief it was to find such a charming Nord hamlet for respite.

Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak knew these parts well, even if these people were complete strangers. He had grown up amongst stories of the hard work and perseverance of the common man, and it was with quiet admiration that he carried himself through the village. He pulled the hood of his cloak down more, obscuring his face some as him and his men wandered into a tavern. But even so, he wouldn’t lose sight of his goal. They were just on the border of Eastmarch now, two days away from Windhelm proper if they pushed themselves.

They just had to hold out that little bit longer. They’d be home, soon.

At such small hours, he was surprised to find even a bard wailing away in the corner, though by the way he carried his notes, it wouldn’t be long before sleep took him. 

“Travelers?” The owner beckoned, “There’s so many of you, I don’t think we’ll have enough room for you all,” he bemoaned, almost as if preemptively mourning the loss.

“We don’t mind sharing the rooms,” one of the men spoke, a handsome blonde lad with charisma as sparkling as the blues of his eyes, “We just need a place to rest for the night, we’ll be out of your hair by morning.”

“I suppose I could get Frilda to put some furs down,” he quickly counted the men in attendance, “Twelve? Is that right?”

“We’ll make do,” the soldier smiled, “We’re so tired I’d just sleep on this floor right here, right now.”

An easy laughter from the innkeeper, “That’s terrible hospitality friend. Wait here, I’ll get the girls to ready the rooms, you can put your things down over in that corner.”

As the innkeeper excused himself, Ulfric motioned for his soldier to stand beside him.

“Out of here before dawn, do you understand, Ralof? We’ll tip the man with coin, keep him happy for a spell.”

“Of course.”

“See to it that it’s done. We can’t risk wasting any more time.”

There was blood in the air and war drums sounding in the distance, but they’d all be home soon. They just needed to make it by first light.


	2. Mend the Heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Svana and Onmund both find themselves on a path to something greater, but not without hitting a few obstacles in the way.

The stench of the sulphur pools and mined ore was all Svana needed to know that she had made it to Darkwater Crossing. Every visit she had expected something, anything to change, but like most of the older inhabitants of the village, nothing ever did. Just as the chickens roosted in the same spot, the dogs all lounged by the same pool of sunlight. Everyone and everything seemed rooted to old habits and even older traditions.

By her count, if Onmund had made his way here, she’d be able to pick him out.

As she passed by the inn, she noticed men and women in heavy woolen capes move in and out of the building. Mercenaries, she gathered, from the weapons they proudly strapped to their backs and belts. Her heart sank to the pit of her stomach, if mercenaries were in the area, trouble usually wasn’t too far off. And if Onmund was out there _lollygagging and talking about magic..._

Gods above and below, she’d give Onmund a talking to when she drags his sorry hide back home. All this trouble he put her through! He should have known better! With all the fighting on the roads and--

She shook the thought from her mind. 

She still had to bring him back, first. Wouldn’t have changed the simple fact her brother had run away from home. Past the shops and travellers and miners, Svana made it down to quieter, narrower streets. Old Nordic houses built so closely to each other some nearly shared walls. They had seen better days of course, Darkwater Crossing was an old village populated by miners and simple folks, not engineers or carpenters.

Past a rickety gate with a garden that yielded healing herbs and medicinal plants, Svana let herself in with one, sure yell, “Oma! Oma, it’s Svana!” The old nag that she dragged along with her for her travels was tied up to the post. She gave the beast a friendly pat on the snout before letting herself into the house.

“Oma?” She shrugged off her cape as she looked around, hands on her hips for any sign of the old woman.

“I heard you the first time, girl!”

Svana smiled at the voice that replied. Oma wasn’t a gracious woman by any means, Nordic women, the real ones anyway, never bothered with dainty mannerisms. Those were best saved for those poncy Bretons or stuck-up elves.

And Oma was about as Nordic as they came.

Age had whittled her once impressive height to something a little more humble, and what was once a head of wheat-gold hair was now as silver as the ores that were mined. And though she was left with one blue eye, it was still as piercing as ever, accented with a strong jaw and even more impressive cheekbones.

“What’s brought you all the way here, girl?” She gave Svana a once over with her one good eye.

That question alone answered everything. Her broad shoulders drooped in defeat. 

“I take it Onmund isn’t here then?”

Her oma blinked, incredulous, “Onmund?” A sigh, understanding and tired, “The lad’s made good on his word to run off, has he?”

Svana shifted her weight uncomfortably, “You’d… you’d tell me if you were hiding him in your cellar, wouldn’t you?”

Her oma let out a chuckle, despite the panic that she masked beneath it, “With the way that boy wields magic, I don’t think I’d be able to hide him for long.” But just as quickly as she flashed her smile, it disappeared from her wrinkled face.

Svana let out a quiet curse under her breath.

“You know… there’s not much for a lad of his ambition here, but a big city like Windhelm?”

Svana perked up, her matching blue eyes locked onto her oma.

“Court wizards take on apprentices from time to time, and Onmund’s got the pluck to try his hand at it.”

Renewed hope at last, Svana’s response was an eager one, “You think he made it to Windhelm?”

Her oma shrugged, “You got here, didn’t you? Windhelm’s not too far off, either.”

And then, realization, “Pa said he’d go there first… to check.”

Her oma wore a dark look, “Listen, Svana, I love you and your brother, and I know you two don’t always get along,” and here, there was a grave tone in her voice, “But I also know that if your father catches him first… well, the next time I’m visiting? It’ll be a funeral.”

A chill went straight down Svana’s spine.

“But you can’t go looking when you’re hungry,” from her pack, her oma produced three silver pieces, “Go to the tavern, ask the fellows there for some dried meat and a drink for the road… bastards owe me one after they broke their leg.”

“I couldn’t take your money.”

“Call it an investment, Svana. Onmund’s optimistic, and he’s not wrong to seek his fate… but war is coming, and he couldn’t have picked a worse time to go answering his destiny.”

“What if he’s not in Windhelm?” Her voice wavered with worry.

But her oma never seemed to run out of faith, a trait Svana long admired, “Come right back here, and we’ll go looking together. I know a few tricks up my sleeve, and we’ll have him back and babbling about Breton pansies doing light shows at dinner again.”

Svana couldn’t help herself as she threw her arms around her oma, whispering words of thanks against her silver hair.

“Don’t thank me yet, girl,” her oma gently pushed her away, but not before brushing back some of her brown hair, “Go and find your brother, cub. I’ll be here if you need any help at all.”

“Thank you, oma.”

“Talos go with you child, now hurry, before those mercenaries make a mess of the village.”

The wooden steps of the home creaked and moaned as Svana rushed out of the house and over to the tavern, almost forgetting to greet the old, brown nag that waited patiently, tied to its post.

All she needed was to push onto Windhelm, and they can put all of this behind them. Gods when she gets her hands around Onmund’s fat little neck--

 _‘Focus,’_ she scolded herself, it’d do her no good to stoke the flames of her anger now, even if they were ignited from complete and utter worry. Oma wasn’t wrong to warn her and urge the search forward. If Pa found Onmund first… 

“Don’t think about that. Tavern, dried meat, drink, Windhelm.”

The scent of mead hit her like a punch to the face as she pushed past imposing warriors and made her way to the counter, a woman imbued with newfound purpose.

It had been sheer and utter luck that the carriages were still running in the small hours of the night. He recognized the mountains that surrounded Windhelm, and the warm, hazy glow of a lantern. It was all Onmund could do to throw himself at the feet of the driver, desperate.

It’d be the last trip he’d make for the night, the driver told the lad, and Winterhold wasn’t worth the trouble. But Onmund poured what little left he had with him-- coin and some trinkets he held onto. Good enough. He just needed the ride, nothing more.

He didn’t speak on anyone on the journey north. Not the surly mercenaries who boarded from Windhelm to the docks. Not even the quiet Dunmer servants, clutching tightly onto baskets and bundles as they travelled for their employers. It wasn’t as though he’d have anything much to say, try as he might to fill the awkward silence during his travels. 

He wondered what the college would have been like. Winterhold was a staple setting for many fantastical stories when he was growing up reading storybooks and listening to the skald’s songs. In the stories, clever mages made their homes in the snowy peaks of Winterhold, scrying for a future or prophecy-- that’s when the brave and dashing hero would summon their companionship to aid them in a quest. 

What sort of students would he find there? He couldn’t imagine very many Nords would bother with magic… but surely he couldn’t have been the only one with such a gift? So much of his people’s histories spoke of magic in some form, even the Jarls in larger cities kept court wizards for guidance. 

Onmund had never travelled beyond the borders of his small village, he had never even seen most of what Skyrim had to offer-- he wondered if the Nords from the south were different. Or… did other students come from other provinces? He had only read about the Dunmer and their proficiency for fire magic, the Bretons and their flirtations with the occult. 

His head swam in a dizzying daydream, wondering and wondering, eager to see what he could make of this new life that awaited him.

He wouldn’t have to wonder long. As the early morning light spread across the Skyrim skies, Winterhold soon came into view.

Onmund could barely contain the excited twinkle in his deep blue eyes. The town was a shell of what it once was, all that was left standing were a few fishing boats and old houses that barely stood the test of time. But this was where mages in Skyrim came to learn about magic, and this is where he would too.

Looming above the ruined buildings, were the stone spires and arching bridges of the College of Winterhold. The sigil of its founding days carved into its walls and stones, easily swallowing up the small town beneath its shadow. An eye, an old symbol Nords had used for magic, stared unblinking into the vast expanse of Skyrim. It appeared where one would typically find heraldry-- on pillars and gates, banners and statues.

He could barely take his gaze off the sight.

“I’d be careful if I were you,” the driver warned as Onmund disembarked, “I’ve heard nothing good comes from that college.”

Onmund blinked.

“Listen lad, you look like the good sort, and I’m not going to tell you your business, but if you’re going to blow yourself up with magic, there are better ways of doing that.”

Onmund furrowed his brows in annoyance, “Don’t you have passengers to drop off?”

That was enough to dismiss the driver, who cast Onmund one last ominous glance over his shoulder as he drove away, disappearing into the westward fog.

Winterhold wasn’t what he expected at all. In old books, the town was described as one of the jewels of the old holds. Mighty fjords fed the people with fresh fish, and while the winters were harsh, it was a proud callback to the ice and sleet of Atmora. True Nords called their home Winterhold.

But now, it made his native Kynesgrove look like the bustling streets of Windhelm. The houses that weren’t destroyed were quiet, and while the old stories told of busy docks, only a few fishing boats bobbed in the water. The only thing that ever hinted at Winterhold’s past glory was the wide main street leading up to the college. The stones had long fallen out of place and hardy plants peeked out of the cracks and broken pavements, but under the broken rock, the old markings from a powerful history had lasted the ravages of time.

Even so, he wondered why everything had seemed so quiet. Usually, at least in Nordic towns like the one he grew up in, there was plenty to do, even if the snow blanketed the entire place. Yet there was barely a peep, save for the gentle whines of horses in their stables and chickens cooing in their coops.

That was when his nose caught the scent of meat being smoked, the hardy smell of butter and fat, and the sweet tang of mead in the air. The tavern, of course. He looked up to the side, and it was easily the only building that had any sign of life coming from it. He heard plates and forks clattering, glasses and pints being slammed on the table and the distinct Nordic cry of, “More mead!”

His stomach grumbled then, and the pain of hunger began to pierce his spine. He was so close to the college, he couldn’t possibly get distracted now. He had to get inside, and fast. He could plan his next moves from there.

All he had to do was cross the bridge. He sucked in a nervous breath, he could see the way the bridge stretched over the crashing waves and the angry waters of the Sea of Ghosts. It seemed as though Winterhold was built by myths upon myths.

One step, then the next, and before he knew it, he began his descent up the stone bridges, all the way up to the main building. His heart pounded wildly against his chest. As he climbed higher and higher, the sound of the town beneath him all seemed to be drowned out. He wondered then if it had been magic; the closer he reached the entrance, the more he felt a tingling sensation at the tips of his fingers and toes, like the needling of nerves when sitting for too long. 

He curled his fingers in and out of his palms, and steadied his breathing. Not long now. Excitement pounded wild in his head and his heart, to think, that his entire life would change, just from a simple visit.

He soon came upon a large iron gate. Impressive in its construction, made even more so by the fanciful creatures of Nord legend that had been melded into the metal-- dragons and sea monsters and spirits of old creatures. Onmund reached a hand out, wrapping his fingers around the iron and pushed.

And pushed. And pushed.

Yet the gate didn’t move, not even an inch.

He could see the gaps between the iron. No lock held the gate in place, no hinges kept it tethered to the archway it guarded. No matter how hard he pushed, the gate didn’t rattle at all, immovable as though it were a stone statue.

“State your business,” a stern voice startled Onmund out of his wits.

He looked around, and then, glanced downwards. The voice belonged to a woman, much shorter than he was ever used to. Her arms were crossed over her chest, while the gold of her eyes bore holes into him, demanding an answer.

“Uh…” It took him a moment to say the words in the Common Tongue, “I’m… here to join your college.”

The woman didn’t look very impressed. She sighed, pushing back a lock of straight brown hair behind what looked like pointed ears.

“I’m afraid you’re too late, we’ve stopped accepting students.”

Onmund’s heart broke, “What?”

“I said--” but before the woman could continue, another voice joined the conversation.

“Mirabelle! Mirabelle, is everything alright?” An older man, a Nord, took his place beside the woman, “Who’s this?”

The woman, Mirabelle, explained, “He wants to join, but we’ve--”

“Please,” Onmund begged, “Please, I… I-I travelled for days! Please!” He stammered, “Please, I don’t know where else to go.”

“I’m sorry but--” 

“Mirabelle,” the older man began, “I think we can entertain one more potential student, surely?”

“We’re _full._ ”

Tears began to well up in Onmund’s eyes. No. This couldn’t be. He came all the way! He made it! He couldn’t have been turned away! How many students were there that they could simply turn them away?

“Y-You have no idea what I’m capable of! Please, let me show you what I can do!”

Mirabelle and the older man exchanged a look, before the man spoke, “Mirabelle, I think we can make an exception.”

“Tolfdir, you know the rules.”

But the older man, Tolfdir, heard none of this. With a wave of his hands, the gates glowed a gentle blue. And then they parted ways and welcomed Onmund into the main area of the college.

“Well lad, since you’ve gone through the trouble of coming all the way here,” Tolfdir shot Mirabelle a look, “Show us what you can do then.”

Mirabelle began a complaint, but Tolfdir hushed her.

“What… what should I do?” Onmund asked, suddenly all too aware that his arms hung uselessly at his side. He began twirling his finger together, knotting in anxiety.

“Cast a spell,” Mirabelle commanded, “Any spell. Direct it to that circle there,” she pointed to the middle of what looked like a small nook on the bridge.

Onmund wiped the tears away threatening to pour out of his eyes. He steeled himself, and sucked in a nervous breath. Alright, he made a fuss, he convinced them, now’s not the time to disappoint.

He stepped before the circle, decorated with ornate runes that were carved right into the stone, and began to concentrate. He felt his powers collect at the base of his skull, a humming in his head, as he felt that burst of energy flow through his veins. Clearly in his mind's eye, he saw the center of the circle, and with a quick gesture-- two fingers outstretched and directing his power, did a frightening jolt of lightning burst forth, clapping and sparking, burning a mark into the ground.

He exhaled. Inhaled. Exhaled again. And he opened his eyes to see where he had directed his magic. The scorch mark spidered outwards like veins under fair skin. Onmund turned around to two astonished faces. Mirabelle’s jaw hung open, shocked. The older man, Tolfdir, had his mismatched eyes round and wide, but a trace of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Did… Did I make it?” Onmund blubbered.

Tolfdir and Mirabelle gave each other a look. A moment passed between them, before they both nodded in unison.

“Well then,” Mirabelle blinked her eyes and resumed a more neutral expression, doing everything she could to mask her surprise, “I suppose we can welcome one more student.”

Tolfdir gave Onmund a wide, pleased grin, “Welcome to the College of Winterhold, my boy, we hope you’ll find what you’re looking for here.”

Onmund couldn’t believe it. He made it? He made it! He was in the College of Winterhold! Thank Talos above and below, he made it! He could scarcely believe it. His knees wobbled and he fell to the ground, catching himself on his palms.

And then, he felt it, the rush of tears burning his skin. Pure and utter relief, like a weight removed from his heart. The air tasted different in that moment. It was as though he could finally breathe, like he was suffocating for so long and he hadn’t known.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you…” he repeated over and over as the two mages helped him back to his feet and led him into the safety of the walls.

Onmund heard the iron gates close behind him, the metal letting out a mundane moan and screech. Before him, he could hear the murmurs of students and mages alike in the halls, conversations from different tongues lazily carried by the snowy air. The stones of the walls of the college were soaked with magic and mystery, and he felt it seep into every pore of his body.

He was finally where he belonged. He was finally _home._


	3. Hallowed Halls

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to Moth (strosmkai-rum) for the inspiration and beta-reading!

In any Nordic village, taverns were often the busiest places. Workers and merchants could often be found stumbling to counters looking for a hot meal. Guards who recently ended their shifts sought something warm to ease the aches in their joints before crashing into an open bed. That was, if travelers heading to Windhelm hadn’t taken them up first.

But the tavern in Darkwater Crossing was _full_. Strangely so, especially in the morning.

Mercenaries and warriors lined the entire counter, imposing with their broad builds and impressive weaponry. Oma wasn’t wrong, there was trouble afoot if strangers like these were passing through.

Still, there was little time to admire the strong muscles and even stronger axes that they wielded. Svana made her way to the front of the tavern, where a very flustered innkeeper was struggling with serving orders to the men that loomed over him.

“Busy, aren’t we?” Svana asked as she leaned over to see what he was so preoccupied with.

“Tell me about i- Oh, you’re Runa’s girl aren’t you?”

“You know my Oma?”

The innkeeper tapped to his own jaw, gesturing to Svana’s own handsome features. “You’ve got her looks, girl.”

Svana traced a finger along her jawline subconsciously. Her family had what locals called a ‘hero’s face’, built so square and wide that everyone in her family, her oma, her mother, her sister, her _brother_ , had an underbite.

“What do you want?” The innkeeper snapped, dragging her out of her thoughts.

“I need some dried meat for the road, my oma says you owe her.”

The innkeeper stopped what he was doing then and sighed, frustrated. “Ol’ Runa’s a pain in the neck, but she’s not wrong-” he looked behind him and yelled to the serving girls, “Frilda, get some venison for Runa’s girl, the dried ones, please.”

“Who are all these people?” Svana couldn’t help her curiosity.

“Paying customers,” the innkeeper snapped, but stopped himself short “I don’t mean to be rude, these people came in the dead of night and haven’t stopped asking for-”

“Innkeep! How’s about another bottle, eh?” one of the warriors called.

“Just a moment!” He responded, before returning his attention to Svana, “I’ll get one of the girls to be with you.”

As the innkeeper excused himself, a pair of warriors took a seat beside her at the counter. There was something different about them, now that she had the chance to see them up close. Svana had seen the occasional mercenary pass through Kynesgrove, though usually they travelled in smaller groups. Often their armor was mismatched and modified for easy travelling, all these warriors bore well-made equipment.

She wondered, briefly, if they had been soldiers on the run instead. Or bandits. Or… were these the Companions of legend?

“What are you staring at?” One of them challenged Svana.

She wouldn’t have been Svana if she shied away from a fight, “You’re making a mess.”

The warrior smirked, “Brave lass to talk to one of us like that.”

“I’m not the one smashing bottles and running the poor innkeep ragged.”

The other warrior laughed, “She’s got stones.”

“Aye, I do,” Svana challenged back, “What’s got a bunch of troublemakers like you ruining my oma’s village?”

The warriors shared a suspicious look between each other, before they looked over their shoulder. Strange.

“Why do you want to know?”

Svana shrugged, “Not everyday I see a bunch of well-armed people get cozy in a tavern for no reason.”

“We’re just passing through,” one of them answered, a vague enough question that satisfied Svana’s curiosity… for the moment.

“You passing through, huh? Heading north?”

She could see the warriors getting frustrated with her questioning, scrunching their noses with exasperation, “That’s privileged information, girl.”

Svana leaned in closer to them, as if telling them a secret. “If you are, I could help. I’m a smith,” she pointed to the axes on their belts, “And I know those weapons have seen better days. So if you’re headed to Windhelm, I can keep your blades sharp and your boots cobbled if you can get me there in one piece.”

That seemed to have gotten their attention.

The two warriors looked to each other, one of them stroking their blonde beard thoughtfully.

“You don’t want us to pay you?” They asked.

“I’m looking for my brother, and I think he’s in Windhelm,” she offered as an explanation, “I don’t want coin, I just want to bring the idiot home.”

Before the warriors could answer her, an uncomfortable silence fell over the tavern. Workers and warriors alike crowded around windows to look outside, some standing on their toes to get a better look.

The warriors beside Svana readied their hands on their weapons.

Did someone- or something follow them?

Svana gripped the gnarled wooden countertop. The air was heavy and the atmosphere suffocating. The knot in her gut twisted further. Suddenly the tavern became a flurry of activity. The warriors scrambled to arm and position themselves defensively. Commanding to the others, a hooded figure spoke. “We need to move, back door, now!”

“Oh no you don’t!” A loud voice cut through the noise and chaos.

Imperial soldiers swarmed doorways and entrances, weapons drawn and ready. Thalmor agents strode in, critical eyes watching the scene unfold like divine hawks. They skulked through the shadows as scouts dragged everyone out of their rooms and into the open.

“Thought you could run from us?” The owner of the voice stepped forth. An Imperial commander, if the way he carried himself was any guess.

The soldiers’ focus was on the hooded man. A scout behind him pulled back the hood of his cloak, revealing none other than Ulfric Stormcloak himself.

Svana felt a stone fall down into her stomach.

The pieces began falling into place. Jarl Ulfric. Of the Stormcloak rebellion. Then… She looked to the warriors beside her, whose cloaks were pulled back one-by-one to expose their faces and uniforms. 

By the Nine, what was she to do? Svana wondered if they’d spare her but-

The Nine. 

_Talos._

Feeling around her neck, Svana’s blood ran cold as her fingertips met her amulet of Talos. If the Thalmor or Imperials saw it… she hastily pulled her shawl closed, hiding the trinket under layers.

“Well if it isn’t my old friend, General Tullius.” Ulfric said through a smirk, “I’ll admit, it was kind of you to catch me here.”

“This was no kindness, Stormcloak.”

“You’ve done more for my cause by doing this,” he gestured with a free hand to the cowering civilians behind the bar, “Perhaps you really are the better strategist; I couldn’t have planned this better myself.”

General Tullius did not dignify him with a response, “Hadvar,” the General ordered, “Tell them what we’re here for.”

Another soldier stepped forth. “Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak,” he began, unfurling a scroll and reading out a list of charges, “By the divine authority of the Empire, you and your men are to surrender yourselves to our forces for the crimes you’ve committed against Skyrim and Her people.”

As the man prattled on, Svana watched as the Thalmor agents began inspecting the other guests in the inn. Stupid, idiotic, cruel Thalmor, she bitterly thought. If they didn’t have their magic and trickery, she was sure she could snap those poncey dictators in half with her bare hands. 

It wasn’t long before one of the Thalmor took notice of Svana. She didn’t back down, or glance away, meeting the gold gaze of the Altmer in his black uniform. 

“Remove the shawl.” he ordered, voice cutting across the inn.

Svana pulled it tighter around her. “I’m cold.”

“You’re a Nord in a tavern, girl,” the Thalmor agent spat, “Cooperate or I’ll remove it myself.”

Svana stayed rooted to the spot, though she wasn’t sure if fear or defiance had kept her where she was. Perhaps it had even a bit of both.

The agent didn’t wait for her to respond. He reached down, and with a swift motion, pulled the heavy cloth away from her neck, revealing her amulet.

She had no time to react. Svana could hardly believe what had happened, more so when she felt gloved hands yank the amulet on her neck, wrenching her forward into view.

“We’ve another one,” the Thalmor announced, interrupting the soldier named Hadvar.

“Another one-” Hadvar furrowed his brow and looked away when he realized what the agent had meant, “I see.”

She could see it then, the guilt on the faces of the Nordic soldiers in Imperial gear, the anger of the Stormcloak rebels.

“Please, please, please, I didn’t do anything wrong!” Svana pleaded for her life. She wanted to scream at herself for being so weak and frightened, but what could she do? She had no weapons, nothing to defend herself with if things came to a head.

The soldier, Hadvar, gave her a sympathetic glance. “You know the law.”

“I swear! I swear I didn’t know who these soldiers were! I’m just trying to look for my brother, I swear it!” Svana begged, yelping when an Imperial soldier quickly bound her hands.

“A likely story,” the Thalmor agent scoffed.

“Leave her out of this!” The Stormcloak soldier from earlier spoke up. “She’s innocent.”

Hadvar met his angry glare, intense and loaded, but it lasted for all but a moment before he turned to the Thalmor agent, “I hate to say this… but we don’t have time to process claims like this, Ulfric and his men were our targets.”

“Typical Imperial,” The Thalmor agent challenged, “Always thinking so small.”

But Hadvar didn’t back down either, and repeated with more force in his voice, “We’re here for _Ulfric_.”

“Is that so? Should I explain to our Imperial _allies_ what the terms were for the White-Gold Concordat? Or have you all forgotten?”

As the soldiers argued and glared at one another, Svana saw an opportunity. Only her hands had been bound, not her feet. Once the soldier binding her released his grip, Svana slammed her forehead against him as he stumbled back. Through the stars and blurred vision, Svana ran on instinct and the intense need to survive the encounter.

Barreling through the soldiers trying to stop her, she made a beeline towards the door. Nearby, the Stormcloaks cheered her on. She just needed to get out, she just-

As soon as she had crossed the threshold of the tavern, a quick-thinking scout slammed the door against Svana, and she fell hard and fast on the floor.

The world began to cloud around her vision, sounds and color blurring into a mess of sensations ringing in her skull.

“All of them! Process all of them _immediately!_ I don’t care, haul everyone out of here and deal with it,” she heard the General yell, before everything turned dark.

_Oh Talos, Son of Man, protect me… protect me… lest I see the hallowed halls of Sovngarde._

Elsie sat beside the river that flowed through Kynesgrove. The light of the day sparkled on the surface like glittering diamonds. At least, that’s how she imagined diamonds looked, her books always spoke of “sea diamonds” that were so beloved by sirens. In her lap, she stroked her pet hen, a fluffy, overfed thing that was as tame as a babe. But even in the calm of her surroundings, Elsie’s heart was troubled.

It felt like an eternity since Onmund left home. Since Svana and her father had gone off after him that night. She remembered it so clearly. Her father yelled, screamed, “You can’t leave!” She knew deep down it was fear. Fear of losing his son, fear of the Thalmor creeping into their home, stealing Onmund away. Fear of what magic would turn him into. But all that was hidden under rage, and the volley of insults he’d hurl at Onmund.

Svana didn’t make anything better. When Onmund stood unwavering, unafraid, she punched him. 

Elsie shuddered at the memory.

She remembered how Onmund didn’t falter, didn’t let his gaze drop. After years of insisting and begging and reasoning, in that moment, he hadn’t said a word. He met their father’s gaze, eyes burning with a kind of determination one would call “stubbornly Nordic”. He waited until everyone had fallen asleep, packed his belongings and left.

“C’mon, Frigga,” Elsie cooed at her pet, hugging the bird tightly against her as she jogged along the dirt path back home. She’d been out too long, and since everyone had left, her mother had loathed to let her out of the house for too long.

Kynesgrove continued through the day as it always had. Even with all that had happened, no one had come to ask Elsie or her mother for the story. She wondered if it had been a blessing then, some sort of normalcy to keep her mother going one difficult day after another.

She placed her beloved hen into her coop, kissing the bird on its head before practically dancing into their family home. She was accosted by the scent of stew and pie filling the whole house, Elsie bobbing playfully on her heels to a tune playing in her head.

“Come help, Elsie,” her mother instructed as she gave the stew one final stir.

The girl counted five bowls and-- she caught the way her mother looked at her, before quickly averting her gaze to the fire and food.

Elsie quietly placed the others back. Two for today, she decided sadly, fishing out cheap cutlery from a container on the kitchen table.

She had been too afraid to ask her mother what she thought of the situation. Would Onmund really have made it to Winterhold? Did Pa and Svana find him?

She spoke before she had a chance to think about it, “How long do you think until Pa comes home?” She placed the bowls down, one for herself, and one for Ma.

“I don’t know,” her mother sighed, no longer masking her sadness, “They should have been back by now…”

Speak of the daedra, and they shall appear, or so old wisdom said. The front door of their home slammed wide open, revealing a very tired and very worn out man. Svana and her mother scarcely recognized him until he said, “I’m home.”

Elsie ran into him, throwing her arms around his neck tightly, “Pa! I was just asking about you!”

“Hello, cub,” He kissed her on her temple, “Did you see your sister? Or your brother?”

Elsie stared at her father in horror, “Pa, Svana and Onmund never came home.”

Whatever Onmund had imagined the College of Winterhold to be like, it certainly paled in comparison to the reality of it. He envisioned towers, yes, and impressive stone halls like in the stories… but this was like a palace for the Jarls of old.

The arched ceilings were tall and mighty, with banners of historic holds fluttering from above. The runes and sigils that ran along the walls were so old that even Onmund had trouble recognizing them as Nordic. Statues of fanciful creatures from his people’s legends decorated alcoves and corners, faeries and winged horses cleverly looking on at the students beneath their stony gaze.

The woman from earlier, Mirabelle, had rushed him through a tour, pointing out different locations and buildings, stating their history and purpose. But Onmund barely paid attention to her droning, not when his imagination ran wild and rampant with the possibilities the college could now offer him. 

His eyes grew wide at the sight of the different students and mages that gathered around courtyards and loitered in hallways. Tails and claws of the Khajiit and Argonians, clever glances of the Altmer and Dunmer, the frightening arrogance of the Bretons and Redguards… Some held impressive tomes of magic in their arms, while others twirled fanciful staves to show off.

 _Home_. It felt like he was finally home. 

“-and here’s your room,” Onmund still needed to get used to her curt manner of speaking- were Bretons always so straightforward?

“I… I get my own room?”

He could see Mirabelle suppressing an exasperated sigh, but she answered as diplomatically as she could, “It wouldn’t do to have our students sleep out in the snow. Yes, this is your very own room. You may keep your belongings here.” From the door, she pulled a key and presented to him, “Do make sure you lock up when you’re not using the room.”

“I… I really get my own room?”

Mirabelle released the sigh. “Yes.”

“Thank you!” His gratitude almost had him throwing his arms around her in a hug, but Onmund settled for a mile wide grin instead, “Thank you!”

She waved a dismissive hand in his direction. “Now, get yourself sorted. There should be robes in the closet. We have an orientation programme later in the day, followed by a meal. Do _not_ be late, understand?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Very good. I shall see you at the Hall of the Elements later.”

As she made her way down the hallways, Onmund took a moment to inspect the room he was generously given. He never had a room to himself before, much less one with a window that overlooked an impressive vista of the stormy seas below. In Kynesgrove, his home was typical for many families like his, with the living areas in the basement, and his parents’ bed separated with a woven divider for privacy. 

His sisters shared a bed, and while Onmund had his own, they were all crammed together in the corner. He remembered reaching over to pet Elsie’s hair whenever she woke up crying from a nightmare, or how after a fight with Svana, she’d crawl beside him in bed and pout at their older sister.

Onmund felt his heart sink at the thought of Elsie. He hadn’t had much time to think about his family since he left; all his focus was on making it to Winterhold in one piece. But now that he was finally in the hallowed halls of the college… he began to wonder how his youngest sister was doing.

His family had never supported his talk of magic, not even if it was just a passing mention. Svana would scold him and scoff at everything he said about it. Sometimes she’d even talk over him the minute she got uncomfortable, drowning out his words with her own stories. 

Pa on the other hand, was quick to hit him over the head or on the mouth if he ever defied his order to shut up. Ma stayed quiet, and while she always tried to soothe Pa and tell him that it was enough, she would also be the one to gently discourage his talk of magic. 

It was always Elsie who found him hiding at the edge of the village, sulking by the river. She’d always bring some bread, jam and some salve and tell him,“If you ever learn magic, could you teach me too?” 

Though they both knew that it would never happen; Elsie hadn’t ever shown any skill in magic, but the thought alone was enough to make him lean into her small shoulders and cry.

He felt his throat tighten then, felt the sting of tears in the corner of his eyes. He’d have to find a way to send a letter to her, or find some way to tell her that he made it safely, that everyone can just… live their lives in peace.

With him gone, there’d be no one to talk their ears off about magic, they can just go back to talking about whatever the other villagers were up to, or whatever the latest scandal was with the local Thanes and their retinue of sycophants. They didn’t have to worry about the Stormcloaks men swooping in to persecute him for being a mage- his father’s favorite, paranoid excuse for his fear of magic.

“All mages do,” his Pa would spit, “Is ruin everything. You look back in history and name one thing those troublemakers haven’t caused?”

Onmund could never answer-- he never learned much about history, not about the other provinces anyway. So he stayed quiet, and to his Pa, that was all he needed.

“Look at them, the Bretons, the Imperials, the elves, you see what their lot has done to us all the way here in Skyrim?”

He didn’t know anything about Bretons or Imperials or elves, but if they would be more accepting of his gift… well, why wouldn’t he want to be among them? He knew his father spoke with fear, but Onmund knew that it took a Nord to face another Nord’s stubbornness. 

Now that he was in the college, perhaps he’d find the acceptance and validation he so desperately wanted. Even if it did come from Bretons, Imperials or elves- weaker races, as his father called them.

“No use crying about it now,” he told himself; he had to get settled in before evening, after all. Moping now would lose what precious time he could be spending honing his skill or talking to fellow mages.

By the Nine, other mages! He wondered what they must be like! As excited thoughts swirled around his mind, he made his way to the cabinet that Mirabelle mentioned. Sure enough, folded neatly on one of the shelves, was a traditional mage’s robe.

As he changed his clothes, he learned then how much magic had truly embedded itself within the college. As he began to disrobe, he noticed just how comfortably warm the rooms were… and yet there hadn’t been a fireplace in sight. He pressed a bare palm to the stone walls and sure enough, it was hot to the touch.

Onmund pulled the blue robes over his broad shoulders, tying the knots and sashes with such sure movements, he was convinced this was truly his calling. Most Nord clothes were only ever made to one size, with little ribbons and cinches to ensure a comfortable fit. He couldn’t help but take a moment to admire the sight of himself as he caught a glimpse of his reflection in a hanging mirror. 

A pleased grin spread across his face as he smoothed the fabric down his front, giving a playful pat to his round stomach. The fabric was heavy and durable, with traditional Nordic motifs woven in with white, sturdy thread. The leather that made up the mantle was soft, far more luxurious than the rough hide he made do in Kynesgrove. Gone were the simple fabrics and painted rosemaling, now, he looked the part of a real mage. No more playing pretend.

But he didn’t dwell long on his thoughts for long. Not a moment later, he heard a stumble, the tumbling of what sounded like too many books, and the helpless yelp of a fellow student.

He sprung on his heels, swinging the door to his room open and gasped at the sight before him.


	4. New Souls

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> +10 points if anyone gets the Carrie Fisher reference. Also, here come the wisps!

A mound of books littered the hallway, each written in languages Onmund had never seen before. From beneath it, a thin girl pushed her way out, her two hair buns fell out of their pins, and she let out a small curse of, “By Azura, this always happens to me.”

The ashen skin, the pointed ears, the ruby red eyes. She was a Dunmer. Onmund had never spoken to one before, let alone got close enough to see just how red those eyes were. The stories were true: they were like bloody rubies.

“Are you alright?” he knelt beside the girl, who pushed the heavy tomes off herself, “Are you hurt?” He was impressed she even attempted such a feat with such small, skinny arms.

“Oh… no, I’m fine-”

“Let me help you up!” Onmund didn’t wait for her to offer her hand before he easily, almost too easily, lifted her back onto her feet by her wrists.

She blinked, surprised, “I- thank you?” She studied his form incredulously, not quite believing the too wide smile he had on his face, “Uh, pardon me for asking, I hope it’s not too forward,” the Dunmer began, her voice polite and gentle, but her diction was clear and educated, “Are you a Nord?”

“I am!” Onmund beamed, “I just got here!”

“I thought they stopped taking students a week ago?”

“I… managed to convince them,” he flashed a shy smile.

The Dunmer girl returned it with a small one of her own, “Well, always good to have new students, you must have impressed the teachers here for them to make an exception,” she extended a hand out, “I’m Brelyna. Brelyna Maryon.”

He took it enthusiastically, shaking her whole arm in the motion. “I’m Onmund!”

“No family name?”

“Too poor to have one, I think,” he joked, “We Nords don’t do family names, not unless we’re royalty, anyway.”

“Well, it’s nice to meet you, Onmund- say I… I don’t suppose you won’t mind helping me with the books?”

“Not at all!” Almost too happily he bent down and began collecting the heavy tomes, easily scooping them up in his arms, “Are these all yours?”

Brelyna couldn’t help the impressed look on her face, “Well, yes? I mean, some are from my family, I brought them here when I came from Solstheim.”

Onmund had only heard of Solstheim, and even then in quiet, rumored whispers from the other men in his father’s fishing company- of how only the best gold went to those brave enough to journey to the border between Morrowind and Skyrim.

“Wow, you must have come a long way!”

“Most of us did,” Brelyna motioned for him to follow her, “For some of us, this is our first time seeing Skyrim.”

Onmund’s curiosity got the better of him, so he had to ask, “Do you like it so far?”

Brelyna didn’t answer, not immediately, “It’s cold,” she laughed under her breath. “I’m sorry, that sounds like a terrible impression.”

Onmund let her continue, allowing the conversation to flow as she led him down the hall to her own room.

“This is the first time I’ve seen snow. Much less deal with the cold weather. I’ve had to trade silks for fur.”

Silks? Fur? “Those sound expensive.”

Her room had been on the opposite side of his, and when he stepped into it, Onmund felt as though he had travelled to a whole new world entirely. With the amount of magic flowing through the college, that may as well have been true. 

Dunmeri ornaments decorated her room, glinting ominously in the dark light. The Nords, his people, so often spoke of how cursed the Dunmer were. Hard not to see why they would think so: Skeletons cradled infants on one motif, the moons and stars encircled by sentences written in Daedric letters in another. Heavy woven fabrics were dyed in colors so deep and so rich, they could have only come from a place as mysterious and misunderstood as Morrowind.

Brelyna patted a trunk, adorned with more of the Daedric script, “You can put them here.”

Onmund did as he was told, arranging the tomes neatly. Though he had to admit, he had been nervous touching them. He didn’t want to be rude, _‘Keep an open mind,’_ he told himself.

“And to answer your question, yes. They were expensive, my family’s… well, it’s hard to explain.”

“Well, I am here to learn!”

Brelyna smiled at that, “That’s a fair point!” She tapped her chin, thinking of a suitable and understandable explanation, “You know how nobles or royals have big, impressive family names?”

“Yeah?” Onmund looked at the different objects in her room, the initial shock having worn off. He stood with his arms neatly folded behind his back as he admired the artistry.

“My family’s nobility, we’re from House Telvanni.”

“I thought you said your name was Maryon?”

“It’s not a family-family. More like… a loose association of second cousins and distant relatives all working under one banner.”

“Is your uh, family-” Onmund struggled to find the words, suddenly so much more complex now that he was speaking in the common tongue, “Are they very important?”

Brelyna merely shrugged, “It doesn’t matter now that I’m all the way here, in fact, the less they know about what I do here, the better.”

Onmund stopped, and faced her, his blue eyes bursting with curiosity, “Why’s that?”

She smiled, though it was a sad, bitter one, “I’m something of the family disappointment.” Not ashamed to admit such a thing, or too self-aware of her position within her family’s eyes?

No matter the case, it was by that admission alone that Onmund knew he had well and truly found his family in Winterhold.

The horses marched like war drums. 

The grays of the eastern Skyrim skies made way for the gentle, deeper blues of those further to the west. Trees and flowers bloomed in full spring colors, while birds sang lazily from their branches.

Then, pain. Aches. And the distinct non-feeling of bound wrists. Svana blinked once, twice, and then again before she groaned to life.

“Looks like you’re finally awake.”

She recognized that voice. The soldier from the tavern. Dragging her head upright, she looked around her. A cart, they were in a cart. An Imperial soldier drove the horses down poorly cobbled roads, while the reds of their banners fluttered lazily in the breeze.

To her right was none other than Ulfric Stormcloak, bound and gagged with only a simple cloth bind. And yet even so, he held his head up high. Svana wasn’t sure if it was arrogance or self-respect that made him hold himself the way he did, but either way, she could only huff dismissively at the display.

“Come now,” the soldier drawled, “Don’t like the company?”

She rolled her eyes. All looks and no brains, this was a man her father would say possessed a head that was only good for growing hair. 

“You should’ve moved on when you could,” despite the ache in her head and her back, she never cowed to the men before her.

“You wanted a ride to Windhelm.”

“I was _looking for my brother,_ ” she sighed. Great. Now she was _miles_ from where she needed to be, and there was no telling where Onmund had gone, or what he planned on doing.

_Or worse._ She swallowed a difficult lump in her throat. What if Pa found him first?

“Well,” the soldier tried, “I’m sorry.” He sounded sincere.

Svana shook her head. “Don’t be.”

“I’m Ralof,” the soldier introduced, leaning forward on his knees, “What about you?”

“You care that much?”

Ralof shrugged, “If we’re going to where I think they’re taking us, could do with making some friendly conversation,” he flashed a wicked grin, “Would be more polite to know your name than go with the one I have of you.”

His response struck her as odd, but she was quick to brush it off. “Oh?”

“You look like a Hildegarde.”

She choked back her laughter, “Blessed be the Divines, truly, if you do not bear children.” Alright, she could manage him. “I’m Svana.”

“Where are you from?”

_‘Did it matter?’_ she wanted to ask. But with all that had happened, she was too tired to fight. So she simply answered, “Kynesgrove. I was the blacksmith’s apprentice.”

Ralof nodded. “Was?”

“I’m not apprenticing or blacksmithing right now, am I?” she lifted her hands to demonstrate her point, “Think they’ll give us a fair trial?”

Clamping down on his tongue, Ralof looked away. Even Ulfric Stormcloak did too.

“What? Did I say something?” Svana asked.

“Imperials don’t do trials.”

The color drained from Svana’s face at once. “What?” She began to ramble, blubber, at that point saying anything was worth more than saying nothing.

Saying nothing meant she had to hear the truth.

Ralof sighed, “They love a good trial, but not with us,” he gestured with his chin to the Jarl seated beside her, “Not when they’ve got us like fish in a barrel.”

Svana never made it a habit to cry or show weakness. But in that moment, she understood perfectly where they were being taken, what the Imperials had intended for them, dragged along in carts like animals lined up for the slaughter. Tears rolled down her face, pouring through her eyes in a steady stream.

“That’s… no, they can’t be! I’m innoc-”

“Shut up!” The driver scolded, “Before I turn around and gag you both.”

Ralof offered only a sympathetic look, “I’m so sorry, Svana.” He reached out as best he could with the bindings on his hands, and patted her on her knee, “Truly.”

But those words fell on ears that would not listen. She stared ahead at the trees that passed them by, watched as the sunlight sparkled and danced through the leaves and branches, dancing like wisps. She noticed the red and blue mountain flowers along the road, like the flowers her mother painted on their clothes and homeware.

“My family doesn’t know…” Svana began to sob then, quiet at first, but then loud and wailing, “ _By the Nine, my family…_ ” She began to curl into herself, her entire body shaking with an impossible grief. Would the Imperials inform her family? Would they let her write something, in her words, about how sorry she had been? That she didn’t come home, that she drove Onmund away, that she couldn’t do nearly as much as she wanted?

Onmund, gods damn it, she blamed over and over in her mind, why did he run? Why couldn’t he have just stayed home and helped Ma at the market? Why… why did he have to run? Gods would he have even run if she didn’t punch him?

She didn’t dare look up at her surroundings, too afraid to see what awaited her. Would they take her to Solitude and kill her to a crowd of Imperial bootlickers? Taken to some important military camp where the Thalmor would maim and torture them for nothing more than the sheer pleasure of doing so? Every awful thought about her fate racked up in her mind, each new scenario more horrifying than the last.

Gods, no, what was she thinking? She had to get out here. She wouldn’t just sit here and wait for her death. No, an escape. Her mind raced to find an exit. The wagons were going slow enough. She could just hop off and run into the forest. The wagons weren’t going to stop for a single prisoner, right? Not when they had Ulfric. She was a nobody. She could survive in the forest. Not the first time she did. 

She just had to make an escape.

Then Ralof spoke. 

“Hey,” he began, gentle as ever, “Looks like we’re going to Helgen. I remember this place, I used to be sweet on a girl from here.”

She let him ramble on, never looking up at him, or anywhere else. In that moment, the warm breeze along her skin and then gentle rustling of leaves could only conjure up the memories of her mother painting in the corner of their basement, singing old folk songs.

Gods, _where_ even was Helgen? She was so far away from home. Would she even know where to go had she escaped? Could she even call herself a Nord for fighting against fate? The stories said Sovngarde sometimes chose its people. Maybe this was her time. It wasn’t like she was going to live forever, anyway, nobody did.

Before her were soldiers. A Jarl. Men and women of honor. Sovngarde cared little for petty human politics and the Nords would ignore it just as well. She was in good company. Honorable company.

_Helgen_. She would die at Helgen. If that was to be her fate, she could meet it gladly.

Everyone gossiped in Kynesgrove. But whatever stirred up excitement in the village, Elsie paid no mind.

She had gone out that evening to feed the animals as her father tried one last time to look for her siblings. She wondered then, if her father had been less afraid and more honest with his feelings, would any of this happened?

Frigga, her beloved hen, pecked playfully at her boots. She smiled at the sight, despite the sadness weighing her down. It never was fair, she thought bitterly, that she had been burdened with playing the mediator to all these fights at only fifteen years old. All the fights between Onmund and Svana, she had to come in between and tell them to stop. Always remembering to stop their bickering before their father came home. The worst was when Svana had to take Onmund for errands, and they’d come home in explosive anger towards each other, with Svana yelling and Onmund crying.

And yet, the one time she wasn’t there to stop it, the one time she could have spoken some sense into her brother, he left. For good.

She wondered if he was happy. She wondered if Svana had just stayed with Oma. Word on the roads was that there was trouble lately- soldiers about looking for a fight with anyone, maybe Oma convinced her to stay. And why wouldn’t she? Oma was a smart woman, and Svana had the sense to stay put and wait danger out.

Then, the jangle of the coins in her purse reminded her, “Bread! Oh!” Careful feeding would take too much time, so Elsie dumped the bag of feed in a heap in the middle. The birds and animals helped themselves gleefully and she dashed out past their gate, almost tripping over the newly planted potatoes.

She ran down the dirt path leading from her home and into the village proper, barely missing the baker closing up shop. Purse in hand, she huffed as she pulled herself up to the counter, waiting for him to finish his conversation with the woman who was ahead of her.

“Did you hear? Stormcloak scouts say the Thalmor had hit Darkwater Crossing,” the woman spoke in hushed whispers, as if she feared to be heard.

“Darkwater Crossing?” The baker gasped, “That’s so close… what happened?”

“I don’t know, all I heard was that they rounded up some of the Stormcloak soldiers and made a mess of the place.”

Elsie didn’t wait to hear what else had happened. Svana had gone there. Oma was there. Thalmor in Darkwater Crossing? Dropping her purse on the counter, she ran back home, heart pounding in her chest as she desperately conjured up ways to tell her parents the news.

Mara’s tears… why did this have to happen?

“-And here’s where most of the mages spend their free time!”

Brelyna had been a delight. While Onmund had been distracted during Mirabelle’s rushed tour of the College, his new Dunmer friend was eager to show him around. From the towering shelves of books at the library, to the strange objects on display at the stockroom. But as they returned to the Hall of Attainment- the living quarters for the students, it still remained the most impressive of all.

He had seen the halls of bedrooms and common areas, mages lounging about lost in a book or penning their studies down into journals. Up on the topmost floor had been a dining hall. Wonders upon wonders, as flagons of water and mead filled themselves up with only the lazy flick of a clever mage’s wrist. Tea and exotic coffees brewed by way of arcane blue flames, filling the hall with smells and spices he had never experienced before.

And that’s when his stomach rolled again. Onmund quickly reached his hands around himself, as though to quell the noise, “S-Sorry… I… I haven’t had much to eat on my trip here.”

Brelyna’s bright red eyes shot wide open, and her small, thin hands tugged at Onmund’s sleeve, “Well come on then, let’s see if we can’t get you something to eat before we go to the Hall of the Elements later.”

The table hadn’t been quite set yet- there were stacks of plates and bowls and forks arranging themselves neatly on the long tables. Serving plates slid themselves into place magically. Yet a fresh, steaming basket of bread was present, making Onmund salivate from hunger. He hadn’t eaten since his departure, and now that he was safe in the college, his body was starting to catch up with its neglected needs.

“I see the Telvanni girl also likes Senchal potato bread,” a voice came from the shadows, purring and strange.

Brelyna seemed to recognize the voice, judging by the way she folded her arms across her chest and tapped her foot against the stone floor, “We’ve talked about you hiding in the shadows, J’zargo.”

“Eh, true enough,” came the reply. Onmund had not seen a Khajiit before, not up close anyway, but from where he was standing, the fellow that stepped out of the shadow was a remarkably handsome sort, “Who’s your new friend?” Came the toothy grin, framed by a dazzling moustache and a pair of glimmering blue eyes.

“This is Onmund,” Brelyna introduced, “He’s from Skyrim!”

“Ah, a local Nord… surprised to find one of you lot here,” the Khajiit, J’zargo, reached over to the bread basket and offered one to Onmund, “Pleasure to meet you.”

“I’ve… never seen a Khajiit before,” He couldn’t help the smile on his face as he took the offered food.

“Oh ho! What a treat it is that you meet the most handsome of all from Senchal!”

Brelyna sighed, casting an exasperated glance in Onmund’s direction, “Please don’t encourage him.”

“That sounds so far away,” Onmund took the offered bread, picking at it as politely as he could despite the hunger roiling in his gut, “Did you walk all the way here?”

“W-walk?” J’zargo blanched, “Surely this one is capable of many a great feat, but walking to Skyrim? No, I travelled by boat- I had been given special permission to come here to study.”

A beat passed, then two before Onmund began nervously picking at more pieces of bread.

“You… did not walk all the way here, did you?” J’zargo pressed.

“I… did.”

J’zargo stood a little straighter at that. “Well, consider this one impressed. Such dedication you show to honing your craft, certainly your clan must be very proud!” His beaming smile was infectious and charismatic, but not bright enough to pull the frown from Onmund’s lips into anything but a half-hearted laugh.

“Well, I… well, that’s why I’m here. To get away from family,” he rubbed the back of his neck, now nervous and unsure, and his eyes darted down at the admission, “Magic is shunned by most Nords. If it can't be swung over your head and used to crack skulls, they want nothing to do with it. Magic is seen as something for elves, and weaker races.”

J’zargo looked to Brelyna, who returned the look.

“No offense, of course…” Onmund quickly added, realizing his mistake, “It’s just… growing up where I did, I never got to see mages, or learn about magic, all I had were books to learn from.”

“That is tragic,” Brelyna offered, “I couldn’t imagine a world without magic. Back home, everything was magic- even the doors to your home were unlocked with spells, if you couldn’t manage it well…hope you like sleeping outside.”

“Yes, yes,” J’zargo jumped in, all too eager to talk about himself, “I was clearly destined to become a great mage, my parents could see it and encouraged me to seek out the College.”

“Aren’t there any places where you’re from that teach magic?” Onmund asked, already looking over the Khajiit to help himself to more bread.

“Not anymore, no. The College of Winterhold here is one of the last free schools that’s yet standing,” a shrug, “Winterhold is unique- it is not so dependent on exams and cruel governesses.”

“And your parents…just let you go?” Onmund blinked, incredulous.

J’zargo nodded, “It was that, or take over their trading emporium. Either lifestyle would suit me fine, but magic is more interesting, less... mundane, shall we say?”

“I couldn’t imagine what it’d be like,” came Onmund’s quiet confession, “My parents wanted me to be,” he struggled with the words here. Nordic? Manly? He settled for, “Something practical.”

J’zargo nodded, understanding, “It is good still that you decided to come, despite the perils. A life worth living is a life that has taken risks.”

Onmund smiled at that, muttering a gentle ‘thank you’ before the ringing of a large bell sounded through the entire college.

One ring, then another and then another. By the fifth bell, glowing blue balls of light emerged from in between the stones of the walls, gently pushing apprentices by their shoulders or tugging at their hoods. One even pulled at Brelyna’s hair buns.

“What- what are these?” Onmund laughed, delighted, “Wisps?”

J’zargo began flapping his hands around him, as though shooing away very determined flies, “Yes, charming, aren’t they?” Despite his words, there was no hiding the annoyance in his voice.

Brelyna urged her friends on, putting herself in between them and linking their arms in hers, “Come on, I think it’s time to see what this college can _really_ offer us.”

Helgen felt like home. Not that it had the stink of the sulphur pools as one pulled into the borders of Eastmarch, nor the drab, depressing grays of the mountainside. But it was a small village, not unlike Kynesgrove. 

Ralof talked at length about the mead made with juniper berries, or how if one listened hard enough, one could hear the spirits of ancient Nords sing from the top of the Throat of the World.

All rubbish… but those were exactly the kinds of stories she heard growing up in Eastmarch. How the Sea of Ghosts housed a lost princess from eras ago, singing for her love that she dearly misses. How the great mountains that formed their hold were built upon the bones of the dragons of old.

As Svana looked around, she saw the curious eyes of children peeking out from behind doors and windows, come to gawk at the soldiers riding into their quiet village. She heard the distinct sound of a blacksmith’s hammer slowly stopping to a halt. A dreadful silence began to creep into that sleepy hamlet, and all Svana could think was how sorry of a death she’d face. In her youth, she would’ve joked about a death by moonlight, strangled by her small clothes and the glory of Talos.

But Sovngarde only cared for _how_ one died, not _where_ one died. So she sat up with her shoulders straight and her head held high, determined to meet her end with dignity. 

The carts began to slow down, stopping eventually at the end of a large square. The general from earlier prattled on and on with his condemnation of Ulfric and his Stormcloaks, and beside him were two very smug Thalmor emissaries. Svana could see that clever, feline grin one of them wore- a tall thin Altmer with hair so blonde it looked like spun gold. The way her uniform gleamed with medals and baubles said to Svana: _‘This is the bitch in charge.’_

It wasn’t long before they were called down from their seats. Imperial soldiers read from a logbook of their taken names, each one stepping forward without hesitation or fear. “Ulfric Stormcloak, Jarl of Windhelm,” the Nord soldier, Hadvar, read. And as though he had played this part before, the Jarl stepped forward among his men, defiant to the end.

“Ralof, of Riverwood,” Svana watched as he rolled his eyes, mumbling something about Imperials and their damnable lists, before he joined the others, lined up for the killing.

Name after name, they read. For many Nords, a name was what made a person. Svana wondered if they knew they were killing someone’s son or daughter. They didn’t care, not when they played the game of war. When one of the captured prisoners tried to run, he died like a dog- an arrow through the knee, the back and the head. And then it was back to reading names off lists.

“And what about you?” Hadvar and the captain stared down at Svana, but she wouldn’t cower. Not here, not while she still had a chance of dying a good death.

“Svana, of Kynesgrove,” she said, glancing around to meet the gaze of the curious onlookers.

“Kynesgrove?”

“You heard me the first time,” Svana challenged, much to the approval of the other Stormcloak soldiers.

“Get to the block,” the captain barked. Even Svana had to admit, for a woman her size, she had stones to snap at soldiers the way she did. 

But whatever bravado Svana possessed vanished as soon as she heard the dying gurgle of a soldier being beheaded.

One head rolled, then another, and another. It didn’t take long for the smell of blood to completely overtake her senses. Svana didn’t look the first time the axe came down on that soldier’s neck. But when she braved a look, her stomach rolled uncomfortably, and she heaved terribly.

It was Ralof who patted her on the back, getting her to stand upright, “Hey now,” he said, charming as ever, “Don’t ruin your shoes, lass, won’t do to dirty the place when we go to Sovngarde.”

Perhaps it was instinct, or perhaps this was the very definition of gallow’s humor, but Svana let out a huff of a laugh, “I’m not even dressed for it.”

“Ah well, I think they’re a laid back sort up there.”

The skies had darkened then, rolling thunder clouds gathering ominously over the village. Lighting clapped gently behind the heavy skies, Svana could almost smell the rain on the ground. Static prickled at the back of her neck, making the hairs there rise.

But what followed next hadn’t been the tell-tale boom of thunder. Instead, a terrifying roar echoed through the skies, leaving everyone’s ears ringing and the ground shaking. From where she could see, sentries and archers aimed their arrows every which way at the sky.

“Should we investigate?” She heard Hadvar ask, but before he could get his answer, Svana was pulled to the front of the block.

“Me?” She yelped, incredulous, “ _Me?_ ”

No one paid her any mind, all save for the Stormcloaks who gave her encouraging looks, as if to say, “Do not be afraid.”

How could she not be? They bent her down to the block, nothing more than some makeshift thing that was pulled from behind the carpenter’s workshop. Blood had stained the wood a grisly red, and the smell that came off of it almost made Svana faint from sickness.

She cringed as she felt the squish of blood on her knees, seeping through the fabric of her dress. She felt hands push her down, heard the blade sing as it was readied, the murmurs of the soldiers. Everything in her body screamed at her to fight back, but she complied, docile as a doe.

The executioner was not a man of mercy, and his boot came down on her head to hold her in place. Tears began to shed, and all Svana could see through the blur of them were flashes of her family. She regretted it then, punching Onmund square in his face, all because he wouldn’t stop talking about magic. She’d never forget, even in death, the way Elsie looked at her while she held their crying mother, soothing her. She’d never forget the horror of seeing her mother weep in anguish, the way she did when Onmund disappeared, and the way she would when Svana’s death reached her home.

She looked up to the sky and-

Wait.

Was that a _dragon?_


	5. Pursuit

Onmund imagined this was what the great stone halls of the Jarls must look like. The Hall of the Elements was large, with ceilings that were much too high, oppressive and frightening with its massive size. The windows were tall and grand, frosted with snow, and each pane had the same symbol of an eye found throughout the college.

In the center of the hall was a small podium, a desk and a large board, no doubt where the master would conduct their lectures and lessons. And surrounding it were cascading terraces of seats for students eager to learn. Today, however, the teachers and masters all gathered together at the center, while students filled the large room to capacity, whispering excitedly to one another. The wisps from earlier playfully lurked above the rafters and statues, dancing in the light as the last of the apprentices filed into the room.

Brelyna excitedly sat both J’zargo and Onmund with her, arms still linked with one another. 

“Look at everyone,” Onmund gasped, head turning every which way to get a full look at the student body. These were _just_ the apprentices? No wonder Mirabelle had told him that they were full, “I didn’t realize there’d be so many people…”

“After the Great War, not a lot of schools remained standing,” Brelyna explained. “Winterhold’s one of the few that’s left, and one without tuition at that.”

“Yes, J’zargo had contemplated the Cyrodiilic schools and…” he twitched his whiskers disappointedly, “J’zargo may have come from comfortable stock, but the price they asked for made this one wither.”

“So… people really make the trip all the way here?” Onmund wondered aloud.

“Well, _you’re_ here, aren’t you?”

Onmund smiled at that, and Brelyna returned it with her own.

“Students!” Mirabelle may have been a woman of small stature, but she made certain her voice could be heard clear across the hall. Even the wisps straightened up. “Settle down now.”

The excited chattering stifled to whispers, as Mirabelle began her speech.

“Thank you all for coming here. I understand you are all very eager to begin your journey to mastering your arcane gifts.” Students shared looks with one another, excited and hopeful. J’zargo, Brelyna and Onmund did the same.

“But one must remember that your gifts aren’t merely blessings from the Divines. Yours is a skill that requires mastery and control. Hopefully, by the time you have reached your mastery levels, you will walk away in tune with Magnus’s blessing.”

Onmund was completely enraptured as he watched on. Filing into the halls were several mages, each with impressive robes and an unmistakable air of confidence. They took their positions behind each teacher, poised and ready.

Mirabelle approached the first, “For the art of Alteration, you will be guided by Master Tolfdir the Shaper,” and here, the mage behind him demonstrated a spell, lighting up the dead sconces in the hall with green fire.

The other apprentices gasped at such a feat. Truly, would they be able to accomplish such a thing?

“For Conjuration, Master Phinis Gestor of Camlorn,” Another mage came forward, smaller and livelier. Their hands glowed with a darkness, and from a pool conjured at their feet, a statuesque Daedra came forth. But just as quickly as it had manifested, and before it could cause any trouble, the mage waved his hands and it disappeared in a poof. Onmund and the other students giggled as Phinis gave the mage a look, who only responded with a sheepish grin.

Other masters were introduced and with them, their favored students, demonstrating their skill and mastery of the different schools of magic: Restoration, Enchantment, Illusion...

“And perhaps the most exciting of all,” Mirabelle introduced, “Master Faralda Gaeron, for the art of Destruction.”

Even from so far away, Onmund could have sworn the mage that stepped forward was the most beautiful man he had ever seen. He had a royal shade of blood red for his hair, and clever, elfin features that looked like it had come from a painting.

But most enchanting of all was when his gaze met Onmund’s from across the room. Perhaps he had been imagining things, but could’ve sworn the mage gave him a clever smirk as their eyes locked.

He stepped forward to demonstrate his skills, confident as anything. A moment passed, then two, before the mage was engulfed in flames, comfortably. The sconces lit by the Alteration mage grew tall and wild. Swirls of flames danced at his feet, guided by only the most elegant of motions from his hands.

Onmund couldn’t take his eyes off the mage, striking as ever, bathed in fire.

Fire rained from the skies.

Nothing had prepared the soldiers and villagers for what had happened next. Svana swore up and down the ‘dragon’ she had seen, perched menacingly atop a sentry tower, had been nothing more than death’s hallucinations.

Then it spoke to her, its gaping maw spewing words that buried themselves into her body and soul. She couldn’t understand any of it, not by the words alone, but something rattled in her bones that made her connect to it. Made her want to repeat them.

That was when the fireballs descended from the sky. The words that exploded in her mind and coursed through her veins soon gave way to the screams of children and soldiers. The fire and smoke threatened to choke her, and her eyes began to water terribly. She watched helplessly as a mother pushed her son out of the way, only to be burned to ashes by dragon fire.

She felt two strong hands grab her shoulder, pulling her up, “Come on, girl! The gods aren’t going to give us another chance!” It was Ralof, eyes wild as he scanned for a clear path.

He held onto her bound hands tightly as he led her to a tower, still standing despite the chaos that had engulfed Helgen. She felt her legs run, felt the way her heart beat in her chest, tasted the smoke in the air… but that feeling of power, of understanding, rolled through her very being.

So much so, that she didn’t realize they had made it through the madness and into the keep. Soldiers barricaded the door, and all Svana could think was, ‘Really?’ A dragon went around burning everything, and the best they could do were a few cabinets and drawers?

“Hey, you okay?” she felt Ralof push her hair back, “Hey?”

Svana blinked, hard, and looked around. The eyes of Stormcloak soldiers were on her, as was the infamous Ulfric Stormcloak. Suddenly the air she sucked in choked her, her body ached, and she was aware of her mortal presence.

“You’re the girl from Kynesgrove,” the Jarl identified, “Strange that the Thalmor knew to pick you out.”

Her senses came rushing back, and out sputtered, “I was looking for my brother.”

Ulfric didn’t falter, his gaze still and his voice steady, “I don’t believe you.”

Svana felt around her neck and her heart sank, the amulet was gone, taken. She swallowed a lump in her throat, a mess of memories flooding her mind all that once, each vying for her attention. She got up on her feet, unsteady as she went, helped by Ralof’s sure hands, “Look, you… you don’t have to believe me,” she challenged, “But I was there to look for my Oma, she was a healer… I thought…” Svana shook her head, “I thought my brother had run away there.”

It was Ralof who spoke, “My Jarl, I think she’s telling the truth.”

“Look, I don’t care either way,” Svana tried, “Right now, does it even matter? There’s a dragon on the loose.”

“A dragon,” Ralof shook his head, unbelieving, “You really think that’s a dragon? Like from the legends and children’s stories?”

“Legends don’t burn down villages,” Jarl Ulfric dismissed coolly, “We need to get out of here, and quick. You-” he looked to two soldiers, “Head up to the tower and scan for a way out. And Ralof?”

“Yes, my Jarl?”

“Take this girl to safety,” he gestured to Svana, “Regardless of her alliance, she’s not a soldier. I would not have the blood of innocents on my hands.”

He gave a low bow of his head, “Yes, my Jarl… but what about yourself?”

“Better we keep ourselves scattered,” Ulfric began shrugging off the impressive fur cloak he had worn as a status of his position, and began donning the uniform of a fallen Stormcloak, “We will gather again in Windhelm, but not all at once.”

“Understood,” Ralof then turned to Svana, “Come on, let’s see if we can find another way out of here. Maybe out through the t-”

“Cellar,” Svana instructed, pointing to a wooden trap door, “Farmers usually drop off their harvest to fancy cellars like this so the servants can take it up to their masters.”

Ralof shot Ulfric a look.

“You can head up to the tower if you want,” even in her state of fear, Svana still found her strength and pulled the old door open, “But the only way out of there is down, and I’m not jumping out of windows or towers even if you paid me a Jarl’s coffer-” an aside to Ulfric, “-no offense.”

“Come on then,” Ralof hurried her into the cellar, “Let’s go before that dragon burns us all.”

They descended into the darkness, the hum of silence muffling the horrors outside. Through the hinges and cracks of an old exit, the fiery destruction of the dragon glowed an eerie, unsettling red. The way was clear… now they just had to make their escape.

Lunch was always an exciting part of the day, but for Onmund, being in the mere presence of other mages made a once mundane ritual so much more special. Brelyna and J’zargo eagerly filled their plates with delicacies from all across Tamriel. Onmund had barely recognized any of it as food. His two new friends- _‘Friends!’_ he remembered thinking excitedly- pointed out their own cultures’ regional specialties.

“You must try this, it makes any meat taste so much better,” J’zargo insisted as he heaped a helping of blue rice onto Onmund’s plate.

“Try some of these! The smokey flavor really adds to the sweetness,” as Brelyna offered a serving of caramelized ash yams.

Venison stew from the local Skyrim cooks, to the breaded and battered scorpions of Hammerfell. Breton pastries and cakes were arranged in a dizzying array of pastel colors on another table, Colovian pastas in every shape and size dominating another. Onmund had to try it all- suddenly something as simple as a meal made the world he lived in so much bigger. He had never really thought about what the Argonians found delectable, or how one would find food in the vast Alik’r deserts, but now they were here, all for the taking by hungry apprentices.

The three of them pressed closely to each other at a bench, chattering excitedly about the lessons they would soon be undergoing.

“J’zargo would want to learn more about Destruction, I think- this one has already devised many fire spells on his own!”

“Already? I think they’d make you a Journeyman quickly then,” Brelyna sighed in a mix of jealousy and admiration, “I want to do more with Alteration though- Conjuration seems… very Telvanni.”

“Does your family do a lot of um… Conjuration?” Onmund asked through a mouthful of food. Manners be damned, the food was entirely too delicious for it.

Brelyna didn’t seem to mind. “Well… yes and no. The Telvanni believe there shouldn’t be a divide between the different ‘schools’ of magic- a lot of our scholars and masters believe magic is simply what you will it to be.”

“Yes, this one has heard the same about the High Rock and Alinor schools too,” J’zargo chimed in.

“So… why would they divide it then?” Onmund asked, curious, deep blue eyes locked onto his two friends.

“Well, the Telvanni, High Rock and Alinor are all cultures where magic is...” Brelyna waved her hands, as though trying to conjure the words to form, “... just a way of life. In my family, for instance, a lot of the mages tend to learn different types of spells and find ways to combine them.”

“You can do that?” Onmund leaned into the conversation.

“Yes! It’s entirely possible, but it takes years of perfecting different schools and spells.”

“Not to worry,” J’zargo began, “When this one has graduated to a higher rank, this one can show you the ropes, free of charge,” he added the last words slyly, as though letting his new friends in on a secret.

Onmund smiled wide at that.

“Oh don’t pay him any mind,” Brelyna interjected, “I’ll believe him when he walks the walk- talk is cheap, after all.”

As the other two bickered playfully, Onmund’s gaze had caught a most peculiar sight- the beautiful man from earlier, followed by the other mages who had demonstrated their powers.

“What is he looking at?” he could barely hear J’zargo say. From the corner of his eye, Onmund saw the way Brelyna turned to try and follow his gaze.

“Oh.”

“Oh?” J’zargo asked, “You know them?”

That got Onmund’s attention, “You know them?”

“The Destruction and Conjuration mages, the ones with the red hair?” Brelyna asked, Onmund confirmed with a nod, “I know them.”

“How?” He and J’zargo asked in unison.

They could tell Brelyna almost seemed embarrassed to admit her status, judging by the way she nervously played with her fingers and averted her gaze downwards, “The Allards. My family is very close to theirs- they give us knights and hounds to protect our work, we give them mages to teach them their skills.”

Onmund returned his gaze to the red haired mage, who idly hung around the pastries and cakes with the others, laughing amongst themselves.

“Not to uh, be mean about this,” Brelya added, “But I’d be careful of them if I were you.”

“Why?” Onmund asked, still staring at the mage.

“I’ve spent summers with them and my cousin and those two? They’re insuffe-”

“Hello, Brelyna.”

“Gossiping about us?”

The two mages had made their way over to the table, seemingly out of nowhere. And Onmund still hadn’t taken his gaze off them.

“Do finish your thought, Brelyna, we’re eager to hear what you’ve to say about us.” The Conjuration mage was a lively looking lad. He had soft features, and a generous dusting of freckles over tanned skin. His eyes glowed a radiant gold, and his long, blood-red hair cascaded down in waves in a loose ponytail.

“I personally wouldn’t listen to a thing she says, Telvanni are clever,” the Destruction mage, and the object of Onmund’s fixation, looked more mer than man. Sharp cheekbones and bright blue eyes made him look like he came to life from a painting. He had the same tanned skin as the other, but instead of the wild curls, he had gentle waves flowing down his back freely, kept in place by a simple, gold pin.

“You two,” Brelyna grumbled, “What are you doing here?”

“Why, we’ve come to say hello, nothing more.”

“Only to find you gossiping about us, I’m hurt!”

“I wasn’t-” Brelyna protested.

“You should introduce us to your friends,” the Destruction mage winked to Onmund, who suddenly found it very difficult to focus on his words, “They seem like the friendly sort.”

And the Khajiit companion did not hesitate to take the opportunity to speak about himself, “This one is J’zargo! If that pretty fireshow was all you could conjure, your days are numbered!” Harmless ribbing, of course, despite the words he had used.

“And… I’m Onmund. Ni-nice to meet you two!”

“A Nord?” The Conjuration mage perked up, and Onmund felt the weight of those intensely bright gold eyes on him, “I didn’t think we’d see one here.”

A shrug from Onmund, “T-thought I’d shake things up here.”

His heart fluttered when the Destruction mage laughed at his joke. Onmund felt heat rising to his cheeks, and he begged Talos for the small mercy that this handsome mage did not see him blush.

“I’m Camille,” the Conjuration mage introduced, “Nice to meet you!”

“And I’m Alrek,” the Destruction mage followed, “The unfortunate twin to Camille.”

“That’s a Nord name,” Onmund gasped, hopeful, “Are… Are you…?”

Alrek shook his head, “Alas, no, I’m as Breton as gilded cakes. But I was named for a prince, and Bretons do so love legends.”

Onmund recalled the story his mother used to sing, how Alrek- a prince- united his brothers after bitter fighting amongst themselves, splitting the holds into North, South, East and West. This Alrek looked like a prince. Maybe not a Nordic one, but the amount of rings stacked on his fingers were regal enough to convince him otherwise.

“Don’t you have… I dunno, dogs to train or something?” Brelyna tried to dismiss.

“Come now, this one would revel at a chance to have a meal with his new rivals,” J’zargo patted a spot for Camille to sit beside him.

“Y-yeah, I… I was wondering how you did that cloak of fire- that was impressive!” Onmund added bashfully.

“Liked that one, did you?” Alrek smiled, taking a seat next to Onmund. He could have died a happy man there- Sovngarde take him, “I’ve more like that up my sleeve, if you’re interested.”

“So,” Camille leaned forward, resting his chin in the palms of his hands, “Brelyna give you any trouble yet?”

“Or has she been behaving herself completely?” Alrek smirked.

Despite the accusations, Brelyna laughed, “Oh no, don’t start that with me. I know who set fire to that banister at Master Neloth’s tower.”

“I haven’t the faintest to what you’re saying, Brelyna, dearest,” Alrek said nonchalantly, with a mischievous glint in his eyes.

“Although in all seriousness, Brelyna,” Camille added, “It is nice to see you settling into Skyrim. I take it you find Winterhold agreeable? It’s much more different than Solstheim.”

There was a warm, genuine smile on Brelyna’s face at Camille’s questioning, “Yeah. Much more to my pace, I think. No exams, no governess, just… studying and practice.”

“Your parents haven’t given you much trouble have they?” Alrek asked, lazily taking a bite out of his cake.

“No… the letters aren’t so frequent, but judging by the snow? I’d say the messengers not coming is a blessing in disguise.”

“So, Onmund,” Alrek turned his attention to the lone Nord, “How do you find Winterhold?”

“It’s… It’s amazing!” He could feel his tongue ready to ramble, but he had restrained himself every way to get the words out coherently, trying his hardest not to seem unbecoming or off-putting, “I’ve never been around so many mages before, or really anyone outside of Skyrim. This is all so new to me.”

Camille blinked, “Surely there must be other mages where you’re from? Don’t the uh lords- Jarls? Don’t they have wizards or mages in their court?”

Onmund shrugged, “I’ve never been to one of the bigger cities before, at least, not for very long. I… I actually came from a really small village. I think I was the only one in that place that had any magical skill. I mean, there was a Dunmer woman who came by but…”

“Oh?” Alrek’s tone of voice invited him to continue.

“Occasionally she comes to… I dunno, do something with the mines near my village. She stops by every so often but… I don’t really talk to her. She keeps to herself, then goes back to wherever she’s from.”

“You know,” Alrek began, and Onmund’s attention was immediately captured by him, “This all must be an incredible experience. Is this the first time outside of your village?”

“It...It is,” suddenly he was all too aware of how that sounded like. Some sorry country bumpkin come to play among the scholars and royals. Brelyna and J’zargo each had stories of them travelling to different provinces and meeting so many new people. What could Onmund offer in terms of his own lived experience? 

“It’s… just that my family and I were… well, we’re not… rich.” He struggled with the last word. 

He had never really considered his status in life- everyone else in Kynesgrove were farmers or miners or fishermen. But now, amongst so many others from grander backgrounds, he felt so small.

“I don’t think there’s any shame in that,” Camille added, “There’s plenty to be admired about people who do what they can to make a living out of honest work.”

Onmund smiled at that, “It just feels strange. You all seem so… so…”

“Privileged?” Alrek helped.

He hung onto the Breton’s every word, “Y-yeah. I just… I didn’t think anyone would pay much attention to me. My father’s a fisherman and my mother just sells little bits of art during market day. We don’t make much,” Onmund glanced at Alrek’s rings, wondering how much it cost, all stacked in a glittering mess on his fingers. How much his parents could make off that alone. Winters would be less harsh, for one. He pushed the thought away; it wasn’t right to think of others like that.

Although he was curious how Alrek and Camille arrived to such wealth.

“We’re glad you’re still here,” Alrek offered, “We can learn a lot more from each other with such different perspectives.”

Brelyna deadpanned, “You mean how you’re still trying to find the most effective way to burn a man alive?”

“Come now, I have better hobbies than that!” Alrek protested.

“Oh? Like how Camille is still trying to move into Oblivion?”

“I’ll have you know I’ve got my eyes set on this spectacular property in the Deadlands,” Camille bantered, “Full view of the hot rivers of lava and the shrieking of the damned!”

Brelyna laughed at that, “They’d string you up over here for saying that.”

“All the more reason to move there, wouldn’t you think?”

Onmund was swept up in it all. The playful banters, the serious discussions peppered in between, Camille trying his hardest to say challenging Ta'agra words. None of this would have happened in his wildest dreams. At best he had thought of finding a mage to apprentice under, but the world that the College had thrown him into was beyond his expectations.

All the more so, when he felt Alrek’s hand accidentally brush over his. Or how the world seemed to stop when he looked up to smile at him.

He had forgotten about that bruise on his cheek. Forgot about the way his father and sister screamed at him. For now, he could just forget, and lose himself in easy conversation, surrounded by people who genuinely seemed delighted to have him along.

He rambled all throughout the meal about the spells he could or wanted to do, the things he had read, all met with reassurance and validation from the mages around him.

He had long imagined what it was like to be wanted, saved only for his most secret dreams and fantasies. He didn’t have to dream anymore, didn’t have to pretend or be thankful for any scrap of kindness given to him by his father or older sister. 

He was home.


	6. Lover to Lover

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Onmund officially sets himself up in the college, thanks to a few kind gestures from his newfound friends. Svana on the other hand, is quickly learning that she's out of the pan and into the fire when she starts to see the toll of the Stormcloak and Imperial conflict.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Officially adding a co-creator for the new chapters moving forward. Moth has been nothing short of a fantastic beta-reader, who has not only helpfully edited the chapters, but suggesting a ton of fantastic ideas to implement in future chapters of the fic! Let's give a warm hand X)

From where they emerged, Ralof and Svana could have sworn they had entered a plane of Oblivion. Fire engulfed the town of Helgen. What was once a sleepy village in the shadow of the Throat of the World had been reduced to nothing but a glorified bonfire.

“This way!” Ralof shouted above the chaos, “We can snake around the inn!”

Svana followed, “How can you even tell?”

“Trust me,” they ducked behind a still standing stone wall just as the dragon swooped overhead, shouting its foul roar, “I’ve been here plenty.”

Imperial, Stormcloak, Thalmor, villager alike ran in circles trying to make sense of the destruction. Walls came down, paths were blocked, and when that dragon got bored enough, the bastard would fly down and simply pluck a hapless victim into the sky to play with. Ralof had been a sensible enough guide, leading Svana to safety, and halting her when they got too close to anyone who would take an opportunity to kill them.

“There!” Ralof pointed as they ran across an open field, “Past the Imperials, if we can make it into the keep, we might find a way out on the other side.”

Svana nodded. It was a sound enough plan. She shifted, ready to dart across the field and into the keep, but he pulled her back in time as the dragon again swept down, catching an Imperial archer and eating them alive.

Her stomach rolled at the sight, and she would have been sick right then and there, had Ralof not pushed her back out. “Go, go, go!” he yelled, “Come on, we’re almost-”

“ _Ralof_! You damned traitor, out of my way!”

Svana whirled around to see none other than Hadvar, facing off with Ralof in the middle of a thrice-blighted dragon attack.

“We’re escaping, Hadvar,” Ralof answered back, the two closing the distance between them, nothing but anger boiling between the two of them, “And you’re not going to stop us!”

They were not fazed even when another roar echoed across the skies. Svana came between the two soldiers, grabbing their wrists with her still-bound hands. “We can argue about this later, come on!” and dragged them both into the keep with her, barely missing another shower of flame.

The two of them, momentarily stunned by the sheer strength she possessed, offered no resistance as she tossed them into the safety of the keep. 

Ralof and Hadvar blinked at each other, and as soon as they realized they had a momentary respite from dragon fire, immediately turned to fighting again.

“Great job! _Great job_!” Ralof sarcastically applauded.

“Me? You think this is my doing?” Hadvar furrowed his brows.

“Well somebody brought that damned thing here!”

“How do I know it’s not one of your hare-brained Stormcloak ideas?”

“Hare-brained? Say that to my face, you milk-drinking coward!”

“I just _did_!”

“Enough!” Svana yelled, shaking her head, “Mara’s mercy, you two bicker like an old couple.”

Ralof and Hadvar shared a look, and then promptly averted their gaze.

“Well, I’m not working with some… some… some Imperial lap boy.”

“I could say the same about backstabbing brothers-in-arms.”

Svana squinted. It was clear that the two had history, from the very specific insults used. But she could hear the destruction outside still, and she was sure the screams of the soldiers and villagers were going to haunt her for years to come.

“Look, it doesn’t matter now,” Svana tried, “That dragon didn’t care what banners we were flying, all he’s looking for is a meal,” she began walking over into one of the rooms, finding a barracks of sorts.

“She’s right,” Hadvar relented, “Let’s focus on finding a way out.”

Ralof huffed in response.

Hadvar muttered a bitter, “Typical,” under his breath before turning his attention to Svana, “Here, let me get those bindings off you.”

Eagerly, Svana offered up her wrists, and with a sure, steady slice, they were free. She rubbed the painful grooves and bruises absentmindedly.

“Always carry a knife like that?” Ralof cocked an eyebrow up.

“It’s a utility knife,” Hadvar explained, “so we don’t have to use rocks or teeth.”

“A Nord always uses what Kyne offe-”

“Really?” Svana interrupted, “Stop it, both of you. Why does any of this matter? There’s a _dragon_ on the loose- we have to get to safety!”

Ralof and Hadvar nodded, with the former adding, “Fine, but only if he takes point.”

“Why? So you can stab-”

Svana shot them both a _look_.

“Alright, you lead then,” Hadvar tried, and after a pause, “It was Svana, right? Of Kynesgrove.”

She nodded.

“You’re a long ways from home,” There was no hiding the regret in Hadvar’s voice.

“Doesn’t matter now,” Svana pushed past them both, helping herself to an axe that hung on a rack. “If we don’t get out of here now, we’ll all be a long ways from home.”

Ralof took a warhammer, testing the balance and weight in his hands.

“What’s near here?” Svana asked from across the room as she peered down a hallway.

“Riverwood,” Hadvar answered, “Not far from here.”

Svana perked up at that, “Wait, Ralof, aren’t you from Riverwood?”

The Stormcloak flashed a clever, too-smug grin, and gave a hardy pat on Hadvar’s back, knocking the wind out of the Imperial soldier, “I dunno, Hadvar, should we take her on a tour of our town, dearest?” The venom in the way he said that last word definitely pointed to a history between the two of them. Svana had to admit, she was curious.

But Hadvar returned that statement with a deadly glare, one even Ralof backed away from despite the pleased smile, “Yes, we’re both from Riverwood.”

Svana smirked at that, “Well, a homecoming it is then.” And without saying another word, she led them both down the hallway, sure as ever. The soldiers followed behind her, weapons drawn, together descending down into the darkness of the keep.

Onmund’s heart lurched when the Allards had bade their farewells. “Mustn’t dawdle,” Camille flashed a clever smile to the apprentices at the table, “Lots of Daedric horrors to uncover.”

“Agreed,” Alrek tossed a long lock of red hair behind his shoulder, revealing a glimmering gold earring hanging off the slight point of his ear, “Well, except for the Daedric horrors, I’ve more mundane affairs to settle.” His rings clinked gently on his fingers as he smoothed down his robes, hiding what seemed to be an impressively gold-threaded shirt underneath it, “Perhaps we’ll see you around the college?”

Before he could stop himself, Onmund blurted out, “I’d like that!” Too late, he clamped a hand down over his mouth, heat rising to his cheeks as Alrek flashed a charming smile his way before leaving.

As the Bretons took their leave, J’zargo and Brelyna both stared hard at Onmund. He looked at his friends, eyes blinking wild, before he went back to his plate of desserts, “ _What_? I was just being nice!”

J’zargo raised a furry brow, “Brelyna, correct this one if this one is wrong, but was that not _infatuation_?”

Onmund blushed terribly, “Please! Oh gods, please…. was it that obvious?”

Brelyna tried, “Well…I mean…”

Onmund wanted nothing more than to hide under his bed and never come out again, “Do…do you think he noticed?”

J’zargo waved off his concern, “Fancy fops like that? This one is sure he’s got a line of beautiful admirers fawning over him every moment of the day.”

Onmund frowned at that, not quite understanding the jealousy he had felt. But he was right, wasn’t he? Alrek certainly looked beautiful, and he was rich, if those rings were anything to go by. Even his brother was frustratingly handsome. Who wouldn’t line up for someone like that? 

Onmund would, if he felt he could stand a chance. But he grew up tending chickens and sewing patches into his hand me downs. Food was hunted for, otherwise you never ate.

He frowned, lost in his thoughts. What would Alrek see in him? He was already an accomplished mage if the college was eager to parade his skills to apprentices. Wouldn’t he prefer the company of someone who could match his abilities? And when he spoke during the meal… he seemed so eloquent and charming and clever. Onmund frowned terribly at the realization: Alrek had simply been polite. He wouldn’t see anything in Onmund, no matter how much he hoped.

J’zargo yelped in pain when Brelyna elbowed him in the ribs.

“What J’zargo was saying, _really_ ,” she said in an angry aside to their Khajiiti friend, “is that Alrek’s probably used to people blushing and giggling around him!”

Onmund looked up, a hopeful smile tugging at the corner of his lips, “You think so?”

“Sure!”

He leaned forward, eager to hear his reasoning even as the bench creaked with his movement.

Brelyna continued. “Think about it, Alrek’s kind of handsome for a human, I guess? And I know for a fact that the Allards are rich, and plenty of people would try to cozy up to him, try to win favors from him.”

Onmund nodded. It made sense.

“But, he chose to spend his free time with us,” If his infatuation was the spark that ignited the flame, Brelyna’s encouragement was stoking it to life, “I think he liked your company.”

Hope. There was hope on the young lad’s face, but just as soon as it had blossomed into the reds on his cheeks, he waved his hands in the air, as though to physically dismiss the thoughts, “I dunno, I mean, I just got here!”

“So? We all did, really.”

“Yes, this one arrived only three days ago,” J’zargo answered.

“I was here when J’zargo came,” Brelyna explained, “In fact, that was how we met- when Mirabelle was assigning our rooms and placed us next to each other.”

“If this one may?” The Khajiit offered, especially after receiving another one of Brelyna’s glares, “This one has dealt with many a Breton- all rich dandies like those Allards. This one can tell you, they like nothing more than summer wine and achingly sweet desserts. Perhaps if you are bold, and clever, you could impress him.”

Onmund twirled his hands together, fingers laced anxiously, “I dunno… I mean, I’m a Nord, I’ve only ever drunk mead and even then… it’s not the very good stuff. I’ve never had wine, how do I know what’s good?”

“Dark moons, no! No! You do not worry about that,” J’zargo pointed to himself, “This one can help you, this one has spent so long sitting in this one’s parents’ emporium to not use knowledge to help a friend.”

Onmund smiled wide at that, “I… I really appreciate the thought! I don’t think this will go anywhere… but, thank you, really.”

“Don’t sell yourself short,” Brelyna tried, reaching out and patting him on the arm, “I’m sure there are plenty of people who like you- I’m sure you had some from your village give you the eyes.”

He looked down, and away, as though ashamed, “Eh, most people in my village were… afraid of me. I mostly just hung around my mother and my little sister.”

“Oh… I’m sorry, I didn’t know,” Brelyna ducked into her hood.

“Exactly, you didn’t know,” Onmund offered a smile, “It’s alright. I think… I think I’ll be okay here, now that I’m in Winterhold. This is a whole new beginning for me!”

“This one is glad to hear it.”

“Me too.”

The other apprentices began clearing their plates, shuffling and murmuring as the dining hall slowly began to empty. Onmund watched as friends began grouping off and heading down the hallways together, laughing and talking about their future studies.

He then looked to the Dunmer and Khajiit before him. All he heard in his village were how accursed the dark elves were, and how the cat-men were nothing but thieving never-do-wells. Yet on his very first day here, with nothing to his name and less to prove, he had easily won their affection as friends.

“Say,” he began, catching their attention. “I just got here, and I have never, ever had a room to myself before.” 

“-would you two mind helping me get my things organized?” He grinned sheepishly. “Maybe even help me with decorating?”

Onmund couldn’t help the smile when they both enthusiastically answered, “Sure!”

The three of them spent the evening in Onmund’s room, telling stories and jokes, as they helped him put away his clothes and belongings. Brelyna and J’zargo each had something from their homes to help decorate his room with, all baubles he would come to treasure and appreciate.

Above a small shelf over his bed, Onmund placed a traditional Nordic wood sculpture of a cow. It was one of his mother’s creations, painted in rosemaling. To the right, Brelyna placed a small jade carving of a guar. To the left, J’zargo placed a small carving of a traditional guardian animal of Khajiiti lore.

As his friends retired to their own rooms for the night, Onmund stared at the display, a feeling of love and calm washed over him, before he drifted off to a peaceful sleep.

The bowels of the keep were eerily quiet. Svana could have sworn that there wasn’t a dragon flying about, when all she heard was the gentle scraping of their boots on stone floors as they continued their descent.

“Are you sure about this?” Svana looked back to Hadvar.

“There’s a cave system on the lower levels, it should lead out.”

“Oh yeah? And how do you know?” Ralof challenged.

Svana wasn’t sure if it had been Imperial training, or if it had simply been a count for his personality, but Hadvar remained calm as he explained, “Well, as any good Nord can tell you: one must use our Divines-given senses,” he motioned for the other two follow him to a wall, and he pressed his ear against the stone, “Flowing water. It’s got to run off somewhere, most likely outside.”

Ralof grumbled, but Svana nodded in approval, “Good thinking. So where does this cave lead out?”

Hadvar simply shrugged, “We can figure that out later. Right now, we need to focus on making sure that we can get out in- oh, gods.” They stopped before a flight of stairs descending downwards, “Maybe we should find another way.” He made to turn down the hallway, but Svana stopped him.

“Wait, why? What’s down there?” She questioned, eyes narrowing at him.

“Nothing, I just don’t think it’s the way we want to head.”

“Well, maybe we should look for supplies or something, there can’t-”

But before Svana could finish her thought, a scream ripped up through the stairway. And then, like a nightmare come to life, the eerie glow of what looked like magic. When she smelled that all-too-familiar scent of lightning scorching stone…

_“What are you doing?” Svana screamed from across the field. Atop a rocky clearing, Onmund sat alone, with a thick tome in hand. As he watched her approach, she saw how he fumbled, trying to get the book back into his pack._

_“Onmund!”_

_“What, Svana?!” He shouted back, just as irritated._

_“Were you here the whole time? Ma was looking for you!”_

_“I said I’d be back for dinner!” Onmund got up and angrily pulled his pack over his round shoulders._

_“What were you doing?” she pointed accusingly at him._

_“Why does it matter?” Onmund pushed past her, “You wouldn’t understand.”_

_She grabbed and spun him around, forcing him to look at her, “What were you doing?”_

_“Get off me!” As he shoved her off him, magic crackled in his hands, and from his fingers, a bolt of lightning whizzed past Svana’s cheek, barely missing her by an inch._

_She saw the bright flash of light, heard the clap of thunder, and smelled the ozone._

_Onmund couldn’t have looked any more guilty, and she couldn’t have been any more angry._

“Don’t just stand there!” Ralof called, pulling her out of her memory, “Help me!”

Svana saw that Hadvar was holding back Ralof from going down the stairs, “You can’t go down there!”

There was no use trying to break them up. Thinking quickly, she readied her axe and headed down the stairs herself, the two soldiers breaking out of their hold and chased after her.

What Svana saw made her stop in her tracks.

A torture room.

An Imperial mage, aged as he was, stood over a Stormcloak soldier, directing a storm of lightning down on his victim. The smell of burning flesh hung in the air as the soldier begged for his life. His screams made Svana’s heart drop. What could someone like her do? She wasn’t one of those fabled witch-hunters or the legendary Companions of Jorrvaskr.

But she knew she had to do something.

Throwing her entire weight at the mage, she pulled him away and threw him off the soldier, crying, “Stop it! Stop it! Stop it!”

Ralof saw it all. He rushed to his comrade’s side, holding him in his arms, “What happened?”

But the Stormcloak could barely speak, his body still spasming as the lightning flowed through his veins, but he tried. Speaking in the Nordic tongue, he managed, “ _I-It hurts._ ” Blood sputtered out of his mouth as he spoke, his shaking hands struggled to place themselves on Ralof’s shoulder, seeking some sort of refuge from the pain. 

The soldier’s hands soon steadied, and his breathing grew shallow. It wasn’t long before his body fell limp in Ralof’s arms.

He pressed his forehead against his comrade’s, weeping quietly, “ _I’m so sorry,_ ” he said in Nordic, “ _I’m so sorry, brother._ ”

Hadvar approached, slowly, and placed a hand on Ralof’s shoulder, “I’m sorry, I… I didn’t want you to see this.”

But that only ignited anger in Ralof. He wore a dark look as he locked his gaze on the mage Svana had pulled off him. Warhammer ready, he moved with a kind of speed and ferocity that frightened Svana. The kind of righteous fury that she had heard only in stories, how gentle-hearted soldiers could turn to beasts and killers if pushed right.

Svana saw it in Ralof as he brought the hammer down on the mage, a mess of blood and gore with every swing. The crunch of bone sickened her, as was the blood-laced gurgling that spat past the mage’s lips.

Dizzy and light-headed, she stumbled back. Gods, was this what war was like? Was this what soldiers trained for? Out of fear, she moved no further, staring unblinking at the display before her.

When her senses returned to her, Svana scrambled to get up, pulling Ralof off, begging him, “Stop, please, stop! He’s dead! Shor’s blood, please, stop-” 

With a loud clang of steel against stone, the warhammer slipped from his grasp and he fell to his knees, crying as he did.

“Why are we doing this to each other?” he wept, looking to Hadvar, “Why? Why are you doing this to us? Have you forgotten? Have they corrupted you with their gold?”

“Ralof…”

“No! Why are you doing this to us?” He pointed to Svana, “They almost killed a girl for her faith alone, she had nothing to do with this. My brothers-in-arms are being butchered! People are scared, Hadvar!”

“The elves aren’t-”

“We know!” His face had gone red from rage “We know, Hadvar, we know. But what choice do we have? What do you want us to do?”

Hadvar made his way to Ralof, movement as careful as ever, “We didn’t want this either,” he tried, “But we’re stronger when we’re united.”

“Then why? Why is this happening at all? Mara’s mercy, now a dragon’s come to end it all.”

Svana could scarcely believe what happened next. Hadvar knelt down beside Ralof, and took him into his arms, and kissed him tenderly on his forehead, whispering softly in Nordic, “It’ll be alright, love.”

It had been a long day.

Svana gave them a moment to themselves, looking away as she heard their lips lock tenderly. A lover’s embrace. She knew it. It had been the cliché in every terrible love story that her sister Elsie read: sworn enemies on the battlefield but lovers when they thought no one looked.

When they had gone silent, seeking solace in each other’s arms, she got up and said to them both, “Come on, we need to get out of here.”


	7. By the Moons

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone for the continued support! I hope you're all enjoying the story so far!

Night fell upon Skyrim like a gentle blanket. Luna moths and torchbugs danced over tall grass, the moons dazzled on the surface of waters, and homes of every size glowed with warmth. But such a serene end to the day betrayed the sorrow in one home in Kynesgrove.

Dinner had been sitting on the table for an hour, by Elsie’s count, and yet no one had touched their food. The stew had long gone cold, and the mead had turned warm. She should have kept her mouth shut, she thought to herself, shouldn’t have told them what happened. She began to wring her hair anxiously, trying to find anything to keep her hands busy while her thoughts ran wild.

She ran into the house that afternoon, and told her parents of what she heard. Bad news after bad news, Oma had thought to send a letter by courier: Svana had been captured by the Thalmor, persecuted under the crime of Talos worship.

Her parents wasted no time in rushing down to the small family room in the basement, taking the shrine to Talos and hiding it carefully. They feared the Thalmor’s long-reaching grasp, even when their hands shook with grief at the loss of their daughter.

Elsie tried to swallow a spoonful of stew, but no matter how she tried to will herself to think otherwise, it tasted like ash in her sorrow. She wanted to say something, anything, break the silence that seemed to only worsen their grief.

Her father drew a labored breath. Elsie and her mother looked at him as he said, “I’m sorry.”

Normally, Elsie could see how the conversation would play out. Her father would apologize for how he treated Onmund, then her mother would come in and say that he didn’t mean to sound so angry…

...Yet her mother stayed silent, her gaze averted back down to nothing in particular.

“I did this,” he whispered, leaning his head into his hands as he began to sob, “I did this…”

Elsie looked to her mother, watching fat tears rolling down her cheeks. She reached into her pocket for a handkerchief, and began dabbing away.

“Twenty-odd years of raising and feeding them both,” her father blubbered in Nordic, “And now they’re gone because of me.”

But her mother still kept quiet, save for the gentle sniffles and sobs.

“Well? Say something!” Her father begged.

Finally, too quiet, her mother said, “What’s there to say, Lothgar?”

Her father’s shame was palpable, coming off him like sickly vapors. He wanted to be punished, wanted to be berated. Her father, stubborn and stoic for his whole life, now sat at the dinner table eagerly awaiting for someone to finally put him down.

But her mother’s kindness had always been her strength, “Our oldest children are gone,” she wrapped an arm around Elsie, and pulled her close, “And they were both adults, they had made their decisions. The best we can do now is take care of Elsie.”

Her father couldn’t hear it, “It wasn’t something that he decided on a whim, it took him months, years, to decide this…” he sobbed, “I couldn’t… couldn’t begin to tell you both, how terrified I was of letting him go.”

“Pa-” Elsie tried.

“Maybe he’s smarter than the rest of us, he was always good with letters and reading,” he admitted, “I could never give that to him, what kind of father can’t even teach his son to read?”

“It’s not your fault-” Elsie had to try.

“Now Svana’s gone,” the admission of saying it aloud made it seem more real. As though it had been made fact.

But Svana was gone for sure, wasn’t she? Worship of Talos was forbidden, and those Imperials turned a blind eye whenever the Thalmor snatched up folks in the middle of the night. No one heard from them again.

Elsie held on where she could. As her parents resigned to sit in their sadness at the dinner table, she kept the stew and washed the dishes. She put everything away for the night, closed the curtains and locked the door. 

She held on still as she bathed, dragging a brush through her golden hair, even as she changed for the night and crawled under the covers. Without her siblings, the bed felt so much bigger. The night was so much quieter. Closing her eyes, she could have sworn she felt Svana beside her, fixing her socks or sharpening a blade. She pictured Onmund in his bed, reading something- sometimes a book about lovers, or magic, or even the other provinces of Tamriel. The room, devoid of their presence, seemed so empty.

The silence was deafening, and in the safety of her bed, she began to weep.

The first night at Winterhold brought nightmares to Onmund. Fitful sleeps and haunting memories, the never-ending stream of screams and shouts ravaged his mind like some terrible curse.

He remembered plates thrown at the wall, books tossed into the fire, hope shattered between father and son. The pleading face of his mother and baby sister, punctuated with the feeling of a strong fist meeting his soft cheeks.

Onmund woke up in a jolt, groping at his belongings around him as though to ground him back to reality. He felt the stack of books on the night table beside him- Brelyna had put them there, his favorite titles arranged neatly. Right next to it, a small totem of a cat with words of luck written in Ta’agra. A study token favored by Khajiiti scholars.

He rolled to his back, trying to steady his breathing, the beating of his heart. He closed his eyes, tried to lull himself back to sleep with the crackling of magic fire and the gentle shuffling of students burning the midnight oil.

But it seemed too loud, too grating. His pillow was now too soft, blankets too warm. There was no way he could get rest now, not with the memories running through his mind, still so fresh.

No use in trying to force it. He swung his legs over the mattress and made his way to the basin of cold water in the corner of his room.

Brelyna had done him the kindness of sparing him a mirror to hang on the wall- this one was still so shiny and new. The one he had back home had been dulled with age, with small hairline cracks creeping from the edge of a poorly made frame.

He reached up to touch the bruise on his face, now fading, but when he brushed his fingers over it, he still felt a familiar, dull ache. It wouldn’t have been the first time Svana took her anger and fear out on him this way, but this was the first time she had done so with this much malice. The first time she tightened her first and made good on her threat of punching him.

Water pooled into his cupped hands and he began to wash his face. The cold hitting his skin woke him up out of any desire to sleep- if he was going to be up, he might as well make himself useful. He shrugged the hooded robes over his sleeping clothes and pulled his worn boots over his feet, and made his way out of his room.

The hallways were quiet, save for the too-loud snoring emanating out of J’zargo’s room. Brelyna looked to be asleep too, judging from the darkness creeping under the crack of her door.

In the center of the hall, pools of magicka flowed upwards in a lazy, smokey spiral. At first glance, it looked like water, but when Onmund inspected it, he had seen flecks of rainbow hues reflecting off the surface, glittering in every color he could name. It looked like liquid starlight, sparkling and beautiful.

His curiosity stopped dead where it stood when he read the plaque over the pools: _‘Do not drink.’_

He pushed himself off the surface, so much for that. But his eyes caught the way the tower seemed to go on forever as he looked up. Mages sleeping peacefully in their quarters, or studying still, judging by the warm, glowing lights from doors that were left open. If he listened, he could hear the gentle scratching of a quill on parchment, the delighted, gentle chuckle of a mage who had made a breakthrough on their research.

A sigh escaping his lips, he looked around for something to do, something to tire his mind out and finally rest. Tomorrow would be the start of lessons, he wouldn’t want to show up late and exhausted on the first day. Not after everything he did to get there.

He wandered the hallways for a spell, passing by mages who fell asleep in reading alcoves overlooking the sea. He watched as a tea set floated from a room, down to the kitchen area, then back up to its owner’s desk. 

Then he heard it: singing, accompanied by the melodic strumming of a lute. 

_Music?_ So late at night? It sounded so distant, like it was playing over the sea. Who could be up at this time playing music and singing? The mages in this tower seemed preoccupied with their lessons and theses, but music of all things? 

As a mage, he was nothing if not curious, and so, pulling his robes tighter together, he took the staircase up to the observation walls. The higher he climbed the clearer the music was, until he pushed through the door and felt the cold kiss of a winter’s night.

By the time the faces of Masser and Secunda shone upon the trio, the dragon that burned Helgen was long gone. But despite the waking nightmare that had been Helgen, they were still very much alive.

Svana, Ralof and Hadvar had stayed silent as they fumbled through the dark, the road signs indistinguishable from the inky darkness of the night. 

After a few more moments of trying to discern the lettering to no avail, Svana spoke up. “We should look for shelter.” 

Hadvar hummed in agreement. Ralof kept quiet.

She couldn’t blame them.

“Do we know where we are?” She asked.

Hadvar spoke, his voice hoarse, as though he hadn’t spoken in years. They might as well have, surviving what they did, “I’m not sure. Let’s find someplace to stop. We can’t push on like this.”

Even so, the trio made their way through the dark. Through what little they could see thanks to the moonlight, they had mostly kept to the roads. All was quiet in Skyrim, even the buzzing of insects were a gentle, lulling hum, all of Kyne’s creatures tucked away peacefully in their homes.

Svana wished she was back at home in bed with Elsie and Onmund. She complained and groaned about having to share her space with her siblings, how Elsie kicked her in her sleep and how Onmund snored too loudly… Gods, what she wouldn’t give to be there after a hot meal and her mother’s floral teas.

“Do you see it?” Hadvar spoke, breaking the silence. “There, in the distance.”

Svana looked to where he was pointing, and against the silhouette of snow-capped mountains and the gleam of the night sky, she could see an impressive barrow built into the rock.

“Bleak Falls Barrow,” Ralof answered, sadness rolling into a laugh, “I remember when you used to cry about draugrs.”

“Some say you still do ‘til this day,” Hadvar returned the gentle laugh, “Did Kynesgrove have such a place?”

Svana shrugged, “The elders say a dragon died in a battle when our ancestors were still called Atmorans,” she recalled, “That the mountains in Eastmarch were grown from the bones of that dragon, they say if you listen hard enough, you can still hear it roar between the peaks.”

A beat of silence passed.

“Not that I want to hear it, anyway,” Svana pressed on, “I think I’ve had enough of dragons to last a lifetime.”

“Agreed,” Hadvar nodded, swinging his hands idly in the cold night air, “Though that’s an impressive tale- I’ve never heard much about the old holds.”

“Not much to hear,” Svana answered, “It’s old, like most of the locals.”

“It’s historic, steeped in our ancestor’s traditions,” Ralof spoke, “You should be proud to call yourself a daughter from such lands.”

Svana smirked, “You’d gag the minute you step into the sulphur pools.”

Their conversation had been idle, about everything and nothing all at once, doing everything they could do dance around what had happened. The gentle chirping of crickets and the lapping water of a nearby river made for a relaxing stroll, enough that her eyelids felt heavy and her shoulders started to droop.

“We should break soon,” Ralof began to slow down himself, “I don’t think I can keep going.”

The way Hadvar’s lips parted suggested he had something very clever and witty to say, but stopped himself. No doubt feeling the exhaustion creep into his bones.

“There,” he spotted, “The standing stones.”

“It’s… so open,” Ralof looked around.

“I’m not about to suggest sleeping on rocks,” Hadvar let out an easy chuckle, “Close to the river, so we have some water when day breaks.”

They trundled off the roads and settled into the wooded area. The grass was soft and cool to the touch. Svana could have sworn sleep would take her if she only laid her head down.

“Here,” Ralof offered the Stormcloak-blue shawl from his neck, “Use it as a pillow.”

“What about you?” Svana said as she took his offering, “What will you use?”

He pointed with his thumb over his shoulder to Hadvar, who had knelt beside the river, washing his face, “The big idiot’s got a soft stomach from Imperial training, man’s gotta use every resource at hand, eh?”

Svana smiled at that, easing up, “How much farther are we?”

“Not much, I think about half a day’s walk from here to Riverwood,” he sat on his haunches, “But I think if we keep going the way we do tonight, I might just collapse in the middle of the road and make a nice meal for the wolves… pretty embarrassing way to go if you ask me.”

“I dunno, I hear they’ll let anyone into Sovngarde these days,” easier, much easier to talk like this, forgetting about Helgen, or the dragon, or the headsman’s block and the men who died before her.

Ralof smiled at her, “Get some sleep, don’t burn off all your strength for talking back to me.”

Svana laid down on the grass, bunching up the shawl to use as a makeshift pillow. Her eyelids began to flutter shut, feeling herself slowly whisked away to slumber, when she heard Ralof bid, “I’m sorry this happened.”

The last thing she saw was the two lovers reunited, in each other's arms, as they sat by the river.

The lute-song seemed to dance with the wind. Onmund had found his way up to the observatory level, a dizzying criss-cross of bridges and access points to different towers in the college. Alcoves on the level featured chairs and tables for informal gatherings, he even spotted a few bottles of wine and a blunt stub of a candle in one corner, the view an impressive sight of the sea that crashed madly against the fjords in the distance.

As the wind picked up, Onmund pulled the hood over his head, embracing the warmth it provided. He would soon find the answer to his mystery when he peered over a balcony ledge and saw none other than the Allard twins.

Alrek sat lazily in a chair, drinking straight from a bottle of something. While Camille sang sweetly, strumming on a lute. They couldn’t see him, too preoccupied with their own affair, not that Onmund minded. From where he was, he was content to stare at Alrek all night long in a lovestruck daze.

He wondered then, if what Brelyna had said was true. If people like Alrek were so used to admiration being freely thrown at them, that they could simply pick and choose who to spend their time with.

Not that Onmund could blame him, of course. Even with his hair lazily braided over his shoulder, he was a sight to behold. Full lips and sun-kissed skin, he had read about Breton lovers in the romance books he’d secretly read when his sisters were asleep. Of handsome princelings from the West who’d dazzle their partners with their looks and charms and riches.

Little wonder where the author of such books got their inspiration from.

“Having trouble sleeping, lad?”

Onmund nearly jumped out of his skin when he heard Tolfdir’s voice behind him, slipping on the snow that had fallen on the stone floor.

“Oh! I hadn’t meant to startle you lad,” the elder Nord reached out and patted the boy kindly on his shoulders, “But you should be in bed- lessons start tomorrow.”

“I know,” Onmund smiled apologetically, “Just… had really bad nightmares. No one was up and I couldn’t fall back asleep, so…” He began knotting his fingers in anxiety, averting his gaze away.

Tolfdir stood beside him, and stared at the lad’s face, as though searching for something. Scrying for answers in the face of a young man, Onmund wondered what he saw in him.

Then, Tolfdir clucked his tongue sadly, “Oh, lad.” He gestured to the bruise on his cheek.

Onmund moved to hide it, at first, but now that it had been discovered, perhaps it was too late, “...does it look bad?”

Tolfdir reached out and put a hand to the lad’s chin, turning his head this way and that. Satisfied with his assessment, he returned his hand to his side, and sighed a deep, sad sigh, “I’m so sorry, lad.”

Onmund looked down, as though ashamed, “I’m a farmer’s son,” he admitted, “They… they were afraid.”

“I know, lad.”

“You do?”

“I was once like you, though I wish I had the courage to do what you did.”

Onmund looked over his shoulder, back to the Allards, “Why are we so afraid of magic when everyone else seems to embrace it?”

“Hard to embrace something that isn’t seen as everyday practicality,” Tolfdir explained, neatly folding his hands behind his back, mismatched eyes falling on the Bretons down below, “Why summon balls of ice when you need to tend to the crops?”

Onmund nodded, “...it’s not fair.”

Tolfdir ever was the kind soul, “Chin up, lad, you’re here at the College, you’re amongst your people now. It warms me, truly, to see our people here in Winterhold as a mage.”

Onmund beamed at that, “There really aren’t any other Nords?”

“Oh, there are a few, but fewer with your talent, fewer still with your determination. In due time, I think you’ll find your place here with the other mages.”

Onmund couldn’t take his eyes off Alrek still, who was now laughing at some terrible joke Camille had shared. The strumming and singing had stopped, as the two brothers giggled into fits. Gods, that smile was beautiful.

“And who knows, lad?” Tolfdir watched along with Onmund, understanding as ever. “Perhaps you’ll find more than just professional, academic relationships here.”

The chill of the night was suddenly forgotten as heat rose to his cheeks. Onmund swore he glowed like embers with the way he felt his skin burn.

“It certainly wouldn’t be the first time,” Tolfdir laughed affectionately, “Rest easy, lad, you’re safe in these halls… and if you ever feel like speaking, from one Nord to another,” and here, he spoke in their native tongue, _“I’m always here if you need me.”_

Onmund wasn’t sure if Tolfdir knew, but he had hoped when he expressed his thanks, in their words, that he knew how much that support had meant to him.

Tolfdir excused himself not long after, leaving Onmund to stare longingly at the Breton beneath him, unknowingly admiring him from afar.


	8. First Lessons

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy birthday, Skyrim! I've got some art planned, but let's celebrate with a fun chapter instead ♥

Morning rose over Tamriel. 

Bird song filled the crisp air, the sweet scent of dew still fresh on the grass. Svana cracked an eye open, squinting at how bright the world seemed. Eastmarch was seemingly always so cloudy and dreary. But here, colors all clashed with each other, fighting for her attention in an array of pastels and bright, sparkling light. Her back ached something terrible when she sat up and her arms had gone numb, but she was alive.

“You’re awake.” Ralof stood over her, appearing to be in a much more chipper mood than when she saw him last. “Sleep well?”

She grumbled in response. “About well as anyone could.” 

It had only been a few hours since that dragon swooped down and destroyed Helgen. Luckily for her, the chaos offered an opportunity to escape… but at the cost of an entire village. She wondered if anyone else had made it out alive. Perhaps there were other survivors; she recalled a boy being pulled into safety by Hadvar, and other villagers who managed to make it past the gates before they crumbled into a burning heap.

“Hey, you alright?” Ralof knelt down beside her, pulling her out of her musings, “You’re staring off again.”

Svana shook her head. “Sorry, it’s just… I still can’t believe what happened.”

Ralof patted her on the shoulder, “It’s alright,” he said, his tone gentle, “I hardly understand it myself.”

“Hm. You think that dragon’s really gone?”

Ralof only offered a shrug. “Who knows? Best we get to Riverwood and see some friendly faces. Maybe you could find someone who could help you find your brother.”

Svana nodded, finally getting up. “It’s not that far from here, if I recall correctly?”

“Yeah, there we’ll be able to get rested up properly,” he looked over to Hadvar, “I… well, we’ll have to report back to our superiors soon.”

Svana smirked, “How’s that arrangement going for you two?”

But Ralof could only offer her a sad smile in return. “It’s a long story.”

The smirk fell. “Oh.”

“It’s alright, you didn’t know.”

“No, I’m…sorry, that was awkward.”

“No harm done, lass,” he offered a hand and pulled her up to her feet. “We find happiness where we can.”

Svana grinned, her mood easing up a bit. “I’ll drink to that.”

The trip to Riverwood had been an uneventful one. Svana, in awe of the beauty of Skyrim’s heartlands, was grateful for the lack of interruptions. She had only heard of this place from passing travellers, of tan golden fields and flowers forever in bloom. How the waters were a crystalline blue and how the wind always sang.

It was like spring ever-lasting, and there was a certain kind of charm to the way the sun hit her skin. She could certainly get used to living in a place like this. It was a shame to think that dragons and wars would tear it up soon enough.

The village was a simple one, far simpler than even Kynesgrove, with a mighty mill that greeted the trio as they neared the threshold of the entrance. Ralof jogged up beside Hadvar, taking a hold of his hands.

“What-”

“Listen, Hadvar,” Ralof started, “Let me go up ahead.”

“Why?”

“We can’t be seen like this.”

“It’s just our families, they know.”

“No, the _others._ ”

Hadvar released his hands from Ralof’s, understanding. “You think there are other survivors?”

“Better safe than sorry.”

He nodded, though Svana could see how it pained him to do so.

Ralof didn’t leave his lover wanting though, and gave a quick, chaste kiss on the lips, “Before we leave, we’ll see each other again.”

A small smile formed on his lips. “I’ll hold you to that.”

Ralof made it to the entrance of the village first, waving his hellos to a blonde woman who he shared a great resemblance to.

Hadvar gestured with a roll of his head, “C’mon, we’ll go the long way around.”

Svana trailed behind him, taking in the sights. But her curiosity could not be helped. “So… what’s the story between you two?”

“What are you talking about?”

“You and Ralof.”

“There’s no story.”

“I dunno,” Svana shrugged, “You’re a Legionnaire… he’s a Stormcloak, that must make things awkward.”

Hadvar sighed, “It’s… not something I want to talk about.”

But Svana’s eyes practically begged him to.

Another sigh. “Why does it even matter to you, anyway?”

“I think it’s…strange.”

“Strange? Because we’re both men?”

She scoffed. “No!” She matched his pace, walking beside him as they traced their path along the outer walls of the village, hidden from view. “Obviously you didn’t meet on the battlefield.”

Hadvar nodded, confirming her thoughts, “We were together for a long time. We even lived in the same house.”

“That’s sweet.” There was genuine affection in her voice.

“But the war does a lot to hurt people, scare them. I know Ralof means well, it’s just…” a sigh, “I know it’s easier to just say sod it and leave the mess to the Imperials to clean up.”

“But…?”

“There are bigger threats to deal with.”

“Bigger than dragons?”

He nodded. “Bigger than dragons.”

They were nearing the back gates of the village. “So, what are you two going to do?”

Hadvar shrugged, “I’m just happy we’re both in one piece.”

The village was quaint enough. It consisted of only a narrow, stone road through the whole place, with buildings and homes flanking it on either side. The houses were wooden, typical Nord buildings with signs hanging lazily off the posts denoting shops and inns.

Then she smelled it, the burning of metal, the heat of a forge.

“Uncle Alvor!” Hadvar approached the blacksmith’s, “Uncle Alvor?” He called.

“Your uncle’s the blacksmith?” Svana’s excitement was barely contained in her words.

Hadvar smiled at that. “Yes, why?”

“I… I was an apprentice for the blacksmith back in Kynesgrove,” she approached, mesmerized by the rack holding weapons and armor. “We never made anything this impressive though, only small things like nails and mining equipment.”

“He doesn’t always do the fancy stuff.” Hadvar walked over to the rack and picked up a sword, testing the balance in his hand, “But when he does, well, color me impressed.”

“Who’s calli- Shor’s bones, boy! Hadvar, is that you?” Alvor was a tall, burly man with a beard to match his frame, but the blue of his eyes was the exact shade of Hadvar’s own.

“Uncle Alvor, hello!”

“What happened, boy?” Even with his impressive muscles and armor, Hadvar still allowed his uncle to turn his head left and right, being inspected like a child, “Did you lose a bet with a bear?”

Hadvar hushed him, “I can explain everything, but we have to go inside.”

Alvor turned his attention to Svana. “Who’s that?” he pointed, “You buying?”

“No, uncle, she’s a friend. I can tell you the whole story, but it’s a lot safer if we go inside. Please.”

“Alright, come on, let’s get you both cleaned up.”

“Good,” Hadvar looked over his shoulder, and gestured for Svana to follow, “C’mon, Aunt Sigrid makes an amazing roast. Figured you could use some heartland cooking after what we’ve been through.”

As she walked through the door and was greeted by the smell of home and cooking, she whispered a grateful, “Thank you,” to Hadvar.

Onmund barely slept a wink. If it hadn’t been the nightmares keeping him up, it was the excited butterflies in his stomach, and if not that… thinking about Alrek kept him up in nervous, lovestruck fits. But even so, the moment the morning light had filtered through his windows, he was ready for his first day at the college. Through the whole affair of getting ready, he hummed a merry tune to himself. He flashed his reflection a too wide grin when he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. There was a bounce in his step as he practically skipped his way to breakfast.

“Someone’s in a good mood,” J’zargo groaned as he rubbed at his eyes. “But this one does not do so well,” he barely stifled a yawn, fangs displayed, “Before the afternoon sun is up.”

“Well maybe _some_ of us understand the importance of going to bed early,” Brelyna sat herself down between her two friends, a steaming mug of sweet canis root tea in her hands, “But you do seem to be in a really good mood, Onmund,” flashing him a smile.

“I am!” he beamed, “This is the first time in so long that I’ve… wow, I can’t remember the last time I’ve looked forward to something!”

A hint of sadness tugged at her lips, but for her new friend, she offered him only encouragement. “That’s good! I think it’d be nice for once to study with someone so enthusiastic.”

They spent the morning chattering about what the first lessons would be like. What sort of powerful spells they’d learn, how they could better master their gifts, the possibilities swirled in excited conversation. The liveliness between the three friends didn’t die down at breakfast, not even during the long trek through the snowy courtyard to the Hall of the Elements.

They sat at the front of the class: Brelyna, thanks to her ties with House Telvanni (and really, it was so much easier to hear the lectures). J’zargo could not resist being the best, and only the very best put themselves at the front. Onmund, on the other hand, was just happy to see magical abilities of the other mages up close.

The hall soon began to fill up with apprentices, all awkwardly finding their groups and places amongst themselves. Hundreds of conversations seemed to happen all at once in hushed, excited tones as they waited for the first lecture of the day to commence.

At the very front of the lecture hall, a board of slate had been placed, and upon it, words written in several languages, including Common.

“Introduction to magic,” Onmund read aloud, then looked to his two friends. “You both are already so good, are you sure we’re in the right lecture?”

“Fundamentals are important to learn,” Brelyna explained.

“Besides,” J’zargo added, “We will need to finish this lesson before we can move onto the others. A necessary requirement.” Onmund nodded in understanding.

Just then, silence fell over the students, and the entire hall went quiet. Gentle, slow footsteps of their teacher shuffled to the front of the hall, the tall ceilings and stone walls echoing every deliberate movement.

Onmund grinned when he realized who it had been.

The teacher pulled the hood off over his head, dusting the snow off his shoulders and shrugging off the heavy outer coat he wore. “Hello, everyone!” Tolfdir greeted, “I’m excited to see many apprentices here. Welcome to your first lesson here at the College of Winterhold.”

Tolfdir began his lecture in earnest. Quills scratched on parchment, every word of the elderly Nord being soaked up by the apprentices present in the hall. Brelyna’s notes were elaborate and beautifully calligraphed, while J’zargo resorted to using simple imagery and symbols to relate to the topic at hand. Onmund however, near blanched at the words he wrote. “Dangerous.”

“Magic, by its very nature, is volatile and dangerous,” Tolfdir echoed, and Onmund kept his eyes fixed on him, “It is imperative, as aspiring mages, that you learn control of your gifts. Otherwise, magic can, and will, destroy you.”

The murmuring restirred amongst the apprentices. Even Onmund cast a careful glance at his friends, who seemed to have taken the old Nord’s words to heart.

Brelyna’s hand shot up in the air. “Sir?”

“Ah, yes, Brelyna Maryon,” Tolfdir identified with a warm smile. “Do you have a question, my dear?”

“Sir, with all due respect, I think we all understand that magic is dangerous- it’s one of the very first things we’re told when our powers manifest,” Encouraged by the nods of agreement from the apprentices, she continued, “I understand this is a fundamentals lecture, but surely nothing so basic as telling us that magic is dangerous.”

That made Onmund think. 

When his powers first manifested, he had summoned lightning on a bright summer’s day, threatening to ignite the dry grass with one, foolish strike. _“Magic is dangerous,”_ everyone around him warned, _“Best to forget that stuff.”_

But in every book he smuggled to read in secret, mages called their powers a gift, never a burden. Never dangerous, simply a tool to behold in wonder.

He wondered, more than a little disappointed, if the influence of his people had finally reached Winterhold. And with that, he hoped that Brelyna kept fighting back. She was from a powerful family of mages, surely she could talk some sense into Tolfdir.

But the old Nord let her speak her words, never once interrupting, simply regarding her with a careful gaze. As though he had this argument many, many times in the past.

“I think we all understand that magic is dangerous, otherwise, we wouldn’t be here to learn how to control it!” Brelyna concluded, and sat back down. The other apprentices behind her patted her on her shoulder, praising her for finally saying what they had all been thinking.

Yet Tolfdir did not look fazed in the slightest. He took a step forward and began, “My dear, your words are true- you are all here because you have displayed some inherent natural ability. Your magical capabilities are a gift as much as they are a skill to be honed, I certainly am not questioning that.”

The other students silenced themselves, all eyes cast on the old Nord.

“What I’m talking about is true mastery. Very few mages are capable of such, and those who have attained such levels are those who have studied for years, if not decades.”

The students gave each other curious glances.

“Then what are we waiting for? Let’s get started!” J’zargo rallied. Other apprentices voiced their approval as well, the quiet hall becoming a cacophony of noise in just a few seconds.

“This is exactly what I’m talking about!” Tolfdir raised his hands and the apprentices settled down, “Eagerness must be tempered with caution, or else disaster is inevitable.”

Onmund’s words escaped his mouth before he had time to consider them. “But we've only just arrived here- you've no idea what any of us are capable of!” He blushed when he realized how loudly and suddenly he had spoken. Quieter, he added, “Why not give us a chance to show you what we can do?”

At the young lad’s eagerness, even Tolfdir relented. “Alright, let’s settle down. Please. Let’s do some practical exercises for our lesson today. Perhaps a demonstration of how even the slightest distraction can cause a spell to go awry. That should get the message across.”

He motioned to a student just outside of the hall. “Alrek, dear boy, won’t you come and assist me?”

Onmund felt his cheeks prickle with heat. Alrek? Here?

Sure enough the Breton came striding through to the front of the hall, wearing a dark overcoat that the other higher ranked mages wore. He tossed a long, blood-red lock of hair over his shoulder as he took his place beside Tolfdir, his rings gently clinking together as he did.

“How may I be of assistance?”

“Just one moment, lad, please prepare yourself,” the elderly Nord smiled before turning his attention to the front of the class, “Now, I’d like a volunteer, someone who has some experience with fire magic.”

At the mention of fire, J’zargo stood up and confidently strode to the front of the class. Both Tolfdir and Alrek shared a disbelieving look with one another. Tolfdir was the first to break out of it.

“Well then!” Tolfdir clasped his hands together, “Let’s begin then, shall we? J’zargo, my boy, how long would you say you’ve wielded the element of fire?”

“Since this one was a young kitten!” He proudly boasted. As though to punctuate his point, a ball of flame was summoned in his hand, before his fist closed and the fire fizzled away into the ether. 

“That’s good to hear.” Onmund couldn’t help feeling Tolfdir had something else planned for his friend, “Will you crumple this piece of parchment for me?”

J’zargo raised a furry brow, but did as he was told.

“Now, can you slowly cloak the ball of parchment in fire, without burning it?”

The Khajiit let out a smug huff. “Too easy.” He held out the crumpled parchment, showing it off for the rest of the class to see and began to encase it in fire. Yet the flames never burned the surface, not even a trace of smoke was present.

Suddenly, Tolfdir said, “Alrek, distract him.”

J’zargo whipped his head behind him to where Alrek stood, who only flashed a pleased grin in response. When his attention lapsed, they all smelled it: smoke. And soon after, J’zargo began to feel the heat of the fire he had summoned. He yelped, dropping the fiery parchment onto the floor as he pulled his hand away, eyes wide at the trickery pulled on him.

The parchment burned to a small pile of ash as J’zargo stared at his failure in complete and utter shock.

“You tricked me!” He accused Tolfdir and Alrek both, “That’s not fair!”

“Any distraction, even a momentary lapse, is enough for a mage to lose their control. J’zargo, let me make it up to you.”

J’zargo folded his arms across his chest, utterly displeased.

“-you will now distract Alrek from his casting.”

J’zargo’s ears perked up and a sly smirk formed, “Is that so?”

“There’s your chance, take it,” Tolfdir offered only an encouraging smile.

As before, Tolfdir gave the Breton a piece of parchment. He crumpled it in his hands, and like J’zargo before, he encased it in a cloak of flames. No smoke. No burns.

He allowed the Breton to demonstrate his skills, and then swiftly slapped Alrek’s hand upwards, causing the fire-cloaked parchment to leap out of his palms and bounce away towards the students, who shuffled backwards.

But the parchment stayed encased in its flame-cloak. No smoke. No burns.

J’zargo flattened his ears against his head, “How did you do that?”

Alrek looked to the Khajiit, his eyes glowing with a brighter blue. “I don’t need a focal point to cast spells.”

J’zargo blinked in surprise, as did the other apprentices, who began to murmur excitedly among themselves. Onmund was just as shocked. Every theory on magic he read emphasised a focal point, a mind’s eye on the spell that needs to be cast, and how one’s body had to be trained with specific motions for magic to flow through.

And yet, Alrek merely stood there. To further demonstrate his point, he gently shut his eyes, released a breath, and the parchment was no longer cloaked in flames. A curious apprentice picked it up, remarking how it wasn’t even hot, as though fire hadn’t touched it.

Tolfdir returned the apprentices’ attention to him, “True mastery of your skill, true control, allows you to manipulate your element by sheer willpower alone.”

Onmund couldn’t believe the display before him. Alrek had done none of the motions his books had taught him. He simply cast the flame with a thought alone.

“Would… would we be able to do that?” Onmund asked once a break in the lecture presented itself, “True mastery, like that?”

Alrek spoke, those bright blue eyes meeting Onmund’s own. “If you’ve the inclination, I’d be more than happy to help.”

Every demonstration Alrek had done, every theory Tolfdir had him recite, Onmund would lovingly write it down in his notes, punctuated with the Breton’s name, over and over again.


	9. Hand in Hand

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Riverwood, Svana soon finds that she's being called to something greater. Meanwhile in Winterhold, Onmund begins his lessons in earnest, with Alrek in tow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you once again to Moth for the wonderful work on checking through the chapter, cleaning it up and giving some pretty solid suggestions! As well as adding some much needed lines for better clarity and flow. Couldn't have done it without you!

“So, how long have you been walking around looking like that?”

Every good thing that had happened since walking through the door of their home dropped when Alvor pointed at the cuts and scrapes all over Svana.

Proud as she was, she pulled her sleeves down, hiding them. “I’ll be fine.” To her credit, it wasn’t a total lie. The taste of the food and the sensation of a full stomach overpowered any discomfort she felt at the moment.

Yet Sigrid frowned from across the table. 

“You two must have gone through so much.” A disbelieving sigh fell from her lips. “A dragon of all things…”

At the mention, Alvor straightened up. “Are you sure it was a dragon?”

Svana looked to Hadvar, who only shrugged his shoulders, “Everyone at Helgen saw it, _heard_ it. If it wasn’t a dragon, then…I don’t know.”

“Whatever it was, it must have made a mess of the place,” Sigrid clucked her tongue. “And you were the only survivors?”

Hadvar took the opportunity to speak. “No- there were others, I think. Saw some when we crawled out of the dragon’s way, but can’t be sure after that. No one on the roads here that I recognized.” 

Svana was more than happy to let Hadvar do all the talking. She was preoccupied with finishing a second helping of stew, one that didn’t involve thinking about a chopping block or a dragon.

Yet her mind wandered restlessly. Sigrid and Alvor were a lot like the other folks in her native Kynesgrove, she observed. Hard-working folks who wouldn’t know what to do at the thought of war and dragons. Svana had to admit, she wasn’t sure what she’d do either. Could dragons even be killed? All the stories she read as a child said only clever, cunning heroes could slay them.

And Svana never saw herself as clever, or cunning. She frowned at the thought.

“What about you?” Alvor asked, tearing her out of her musing, “How did you end up in the Imperial camp?”

To his credit, Hadvar began to explain his way out of that story, but Svana wasn’t going to let him- even if he did try to save her.

“I was looking for my brother,” she barely made out through a mouthful of potatoes. She swallowed, and continued, “Ended up in Darkwater Crossing where my Oma lived. Next thing I knew, Thalmor came swarming into the inn and put me on the block.”

“What for?”

Hadvar, again, tried to talk over Svana, but her stubbornness prevailed. “They found my amulet of Talos.”

There was no hiding the way Hadvar shrunk in his seat and averted his gaze, while Alvor and Sigrid cast disappointed glances at their nephew. Though he did manage to say, “I tried to stop them.”

Shaking his head and furrowing his brows, Alvor exclaimed, “That’s the problem with this war!”

Svana stirred her stew in quiet contemplation, unsure of what she started. The idea of war and the ensuing terror seemed so far away from home- soldiers never passed by the village, only mentioned by traders or travellers. Occasionally the hold guards would remind folks to be wary of Thalmor forces seen in the area. But Kynesgrove carried on like it always did. 

Here though, at the humble dinner table, the threat of war was all too real to the families of Riverwood.

“-Just to worship a god, _our god!_ And off they go, dragging people away in the middle of the night, to-to who knows where!”

“Husband…” Sigrid tried, “We’ve talked about this.”

He sighed, defeated. “I know.”

Hadvar spoke up, looking to Svana with as much sincerity as his blue eyes could hold. “I genuinely am sorry.”

Svana merely waved him off. “Doesn’t matter, I’m here now.” 

It was nice to hear all the same, though she wouldn’t give the bastard the satisfaction of knowing that. “What matters now is that I get moving, and soon.”

“Are you sure?” Sigrid said suddenly, “I think you should stay.”

“Why?”

“You’re hurt,” Sigrid bluntly stated, “And honestly? With all that you’ve been through, the least I can do is help you get back on your feet. As thanks for bringing Hadvar and Ralof back in one piece.”

“I’ll be fine.” To demonstrate, Svana pushed herself off her seat, only for her knees to give out from exhaustion and injury. She tumbled backwards, barely catching herself and landing on her already sore arms.

She groaned and cussed as Hadvar rushed to her side, helping her up.

Sigrid clucked her tongue in exasperation. “You’re tired.”

“I have to find my brother.” Svana countered.

“I can help,” Hadvar offered.

She squinted in suspicion. “Why?”

“It means that much to you, and you did help me. Consider it a repayment.”

As she retook her seat once more, wincing as she did, she looked to him, searching for answers. “How are you going to help?”

“I have access to the scouts’ reports,” Hadvar explained, “If anyone’s seen anything, it’d be them.”

Svana shook her head, “I can’t…”

Sigrid tried, “I know you’re worried, but I think you should at least rest up, have us look at those wounds. Wouldn’t do to go off looking for anyone in the state you’re in.”

Svana hated to admit defeat, hated the idea that she wasn’t strong enough to even stand, thank her hosts and just leave. But she had been through so much. Her captors didn’t bother to feed her, they made her entire journey to Helgen as uncomfortable as possible. And then that dragon appeared. 

It was all her body and mind could take. 

She relented. “I just don’t want to waste any time.”

Hadvar nodded, “I understand, but Aunt Sigrid’s right- you’re in no shape to go off. At the very least, rest up while I get my contacts in order.”

There was no use fighting them. She allowed them to feed her and pull out a hay-stuffed mattress in the cellar. And, shockingly, she even allowed them to offer her a bath.

Gentle hands combed out the matted tangles in Svana’s dark brown hair. She sat in the tub of their small bathing room, the steam wafting into the darkness as she stared off into the void. For a woman who grappled with a blacksmith husband, Sigrid had graceful motions when she dabbed at her wounds.

“...Do you always bathe your guests?”

“Only the really beaten up ones,” Sigrid shook her head, “Talos above, look at you. How are you still standing after all this?”

“Just wanted to get somewhere safe as fast as possible, didn’t have time to whinge about some cuts.”

Sigrid hummed in agreement, washing away the muck and grime. “That dragon must have frightened you.”

Svana didn’t know how to respond. It didn’t. Strangely enough, as the beast swooped down and roared its terrible roar, Svana seemed drawn to it. Not in fear or awe, but an understanding of some sort. It wasn’t unlike seeing a proud wolf, stark against the white of a snowy forest. Dragons were easy- dragons were creatures, and creatures were hungry and dangerous. You could appreciate a ferocious creature for its strength and majesty.

Sigrid wouldn’t understand. It was the soldiers that scared her the most.

_'Men are different,'_ she wanted to say, _'Men would torture and maim and torment before they offered death as a mercy. Men played at being your friend only to stab you in the back once you turned it. Men played into bad deals because it was easier to sacrifice your integrity for a few more days of living.'_

But she held her tongue. She didn’t understand the nature of war, maybe it was all some elaborate, necessary evil for some greater good. One that she didn’t understand. 

“Svana?”

Lost in her thoughts, she didn’t realize she hadn’t answered.

“Sorry,” she said, almost too-quiet, “Sorry, it’s just… the dragon didn’t scare me. Or, at least, I don’t think I had time to be scared. I just wanted to get out of there.”

Sigrid hummed in contemplation “I’m sorry it ever happened at all.”

“Don’t be.”

But Sigrid seemed to tear down every wall she put up. And as far as Svana was concerned, as long as she kept rubbing that cooling, scented salve over her wounds and brushed her hair with those glorious fingers, Svana would answer any invasive question she wanted to ask.

“Where did you say you were from?”

“Kynesgrove,” she answered, “Small village in Eastmarch.”

“That’s where all the Stormcloaks are, aren’t they?”

“Not in my village- mostly keep to the big cities, I think. Never saw a Stormcloak up close until today. Not that it mattered, think the war’s stupid.”

“I’m just glad you brought Hadvar home in one piece. And Ralof." A pause. "Really, we can’t thank you enough.”

Svana glanced over to the other side of the room where Alvor had taken on the duty of tending to Hadvar. He applied salve as the two shared a joke, while the little one, Dorthe, sat there, completely enamored with each cut and injury Hadvar had managed to collect through their harrowing time in Helgen.

“Does he have family?” Svana asked.

“ _We_ are his family.”

“No, I meant, like a mother and father?”

“Oh,” Sigrid frowned, “No.”

“Can I ask why?”

It seemed a difficult topic, and for a moment, Svana regretted ever asking, “The Great War took a lot from us.”

“Oh!” Svana looked away, embarrassed. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s alright,” she smiled, though there was no hiding the sadness behind it, “We were always close to Hadvar. Some days I even consider him my own.”

There were no more questions after that. As she got changed into some borrowed clothes, Svana couldn’t help but remember her own family. Dorthe reminded her so much of Elsie- the misplaced ambition, the too-loud voice, the excitement over every mundane thing.

From the mattress, she watched how the girl danced around her cousin as he allayed his fears of the dragon and the impending conflict with Alvor. Watched how she amused herself with a wreath of flowers when she thought no one looked.

It didn’t take long for Svana to fall into a dreamless sleep, haunted by a voice tugging at the very essence of her soul.

_Dovahkiin..._

_Dovahkiin..._

_Dovahkiin..._

The lessons continued throughout the day, and Onmund was already beginning to dread the inevitable moment when they would end. Tolfdir called on apprentices to test their skill against Alrek’s; an unfair lesson, but one they would accept nonetheless. After all, it was far easier to whittle down ego and hubris when they were still students, rather than mages who had grown too much power and too little sense.

“Now then,” Tolfdir began, and the class settled down at his command, “Since we understand the more practical points of controlling one’s powers, it is just as important that we learn how to defend ourselves in the event it escapes our control.”

The apprentices began murmuring amongst themselves.

“Before we end our lesson for today, I believe it is important that you all learn how to put up wards,” a beat, “And just as well. We have had many past incidents where apprentices… were perhaps too eager to demonstrate their skills to one another.”

J’zargo did not attempt to stifle the amused laugh that burst forth from him, earning him a glare from Brelyna.

“Would anyone like to volunteer?” Tolfdir scanned the hall of students, but he didn’t wait until someone offered themselves. He looked right at a student, seemingly having made his decision.

“Me?” Onmund blinked, pointing to himself, “Me?”

“Ah, we have a volunteer,” he smiled. “Thank you Onmund, my boy, why don’t you come to the front?”

He looked to his companions, then around to the other students, and sure enough, all eyes were on him. 

Even Alrek’s.

Breath caught in his lungs, he swallowed a nervous lump and rose from his seat. His knees felt like jelly as he watched the way Alrek carefully regarded him. Heat rose to his cheeks and burned the shells of his ears.

Ysmir’s beard, why did he have to look like that?

“So, uh,” Onmund cleared his throat, too loud in the too quiet hall, “W-what should I do?”

“Now, don’t be afraid, but I want you to cast a spell at Alrek.”

His heart leapt into his throat. “Come again?”

“Don’t worry,” Tolfdir lay a careful hand on Onmund’s shoulder reassuringly, feeling the gentle tremors of age as he moved. 

“I wouldn’t ask Alrek to help with demonstrations today if he couldn’t handle whatever you throw at him.” He then looked to Alrek. “Isn’t that right, my boy?”

Alrek flashed a charming smile, pretty and perfect, “It was either this or poring over tomes- this is exciting, especially when you’ve found such fine apprentices.” 

Onmund could’ve sworn he winked at him.

“Alright, stand over on the edge there. Now, Onmund, are you ready?”

“What if I hurt him?” Fear laced his words. “I don’t want to hurt him.”

“You won’t,” Alrek assured.

There was no use in arguing, it seemed. So Onmund squared his shoulders and concentrated his magic. He felt a familiar hum, the tingle of nerves at the base of his skull, crackling in bright sparks at his fingertips. Then, clear in his mind’s eye, he saw Alrek standing before him.

A bright flash of lightning, a loud crack of thunder, and Onmund braced himself to see a pile of ash where the Breton once stood.

But much to his, and the other apprentice’s astonishment, Alrek easily caught the lightning in his hands. The volatile ball of sparks and magic soon fizzled into nothing.

“Lightning,” Alrek remarked, and Onmund could hear the awe in his voice. “Very impressive,” 

He flashed him another smile, one meant for him only. Onmund could’ve melted into a lovestruck pool there and then.

Alrek watched with curiosity as the last of the lightning disappeared between his fingers, “Storm magic is difficult to learn, that it manifested naturally in you says plenty of your potential as a mage.”

Onmund blushed so intensely, he could have sworn he could have melted into a puddle, “Thank you.”

“Storm magic is difficult for even I to master-”

A clever grin.

“-maybe you could teach me?”

“All well and good, Alrek,” Tolfdir interrupted, “But let’s see what we can do about those wards, mm? Now, can anyone tell me what technique Alrek used to absorb the oncoming energy?”

Other apprentices began to raise their answers and shout their answers, but it was Onmund’s quiet, “The Dragonskin Technique,” that earned him a look of approval from Tolfdir.

“Very good, Onmund. Yes, the Dragonskin Technique was developed in High Rock in the early Second Era.” Tolfdir began scrawling dates on the large blackboard at the front of the hall, “But it is not the only technique for warding spells. Absorption is one method, but so too, deflection.”

Apprentices cried out techniques more familiar to them, even J’zargo and Brelyna fired off their own (correct) answers to Tolfdir.

“Certainly a lively sort you’ve got here,” Alrek remarked. Onmund couldn’t help but notice the way his full lips pulled back into a smile, revealing too-white, too-straight teeth, “Much more than the last batch.”

“Indeed!” Tolfdir agreed, “Alrek, my boy, I hate to keep you for longer than I promised, but would you help with the apprentices’ wards? You’ve been so helpful, I think the others could benefit from your techniques.”

“Happy to help, Tolfdir, just say the word.”

Tolfdir nodded in gratitude, and turned his attention back to the class. “Now, everyone, find yourself a partner, we will begin a more practical, supervised lesson before we conclude today’s lesson. Onmund, since you’ve done so well with Alrek, why don’t you two start first?”

Alrek gestured with a tilt of his head to the other end of the hall, away from where the other apprentices were congregating, “Why don’t we go over there?” 

“S-sure!” Heat rushed back to his face. Alrek grinned at his enthusiasm.

“There we are, now-” He listened as Alrek explained his technique, what form to take, what to expect, how to charge one’s magicka in anticipation. “Show me your stance, and we’ll go from there.”

Onmund nodded, unwilling to disappoint. He rolled his shoulders, ready as ever. 

Placing his feet further apart for stability, he held up his casting hands, primed for a ward. He didn’t expect Alrek to come around behind him and place his hands on his arms. It took him a moment to realize that he was guiding him into a more natural stance.

“You don’t have to keep your arms too stiff, relax,” Alrek ran his hand down from Onmund’s shoulder to his fingertips. He fervently prayed to Talos that Alrek couldn’t feel the goosebumps rising under his robes. 

“There we go, let the magic course through you; even when deflecting you want to move with the flow.”

Onmund swallowed a nervous lump. And gods damn it all, Alrek noticed.

“There’s no need to be anxious around me, I promise I won’t bite,” he gave a clever laugh. “Unless you asked me to; though I’d ask you to buy me dinner first.”

His head spun something awful.His entire face was ablaze, and the accompanying thoughts were as intrusive as they were titillating. He remembered the books he used to read in secret, _of teeth scraping the skin of necks and whispers of sweet nothings-_

His magic suddenly sputtered wildly, like hot oil in a pan. Suddenly, a loud bang. Onmund quickly pulled his hands into his chest from the sudden, hot burst of energy. 

And everyone’s attention was on him. The entire class saw a very red, very embarrassed Onmund, raw magic still fizzling around his fingers.

“Onmund, are you alright?” Brelyna asked, but she seemed so far away. He couldn’t muster the words to speak. All he could think about was _dinner and wine, hands holding hands, teeth on necks-_

“-He’s fine!” Alrek gave him a good-natured pat on the back. The action nearly sent him careening into the students below, dragging him back into the present. 

He turned his attention to Onmund, he put on a very gentle, very kind tone, “I’m so sorry.” The apology in his tone was so sincere, “I’m so sorry, I was just teasing, I didn’t mean to embarrass you like that!”

Onmund let out a nervous huff of a laugh. _Divines,_ why was this so hard? Why did he have to say those things around him? Thoughts ran through his mind, all curious, all intoxicated with a brand of infatuation he hadn’t felt in so long. 

“I-it’s alright…”

“Alright, seriously, this time,” an awkward beat, as Alrek raced to correct himself, “Sorry, I meant _me_ being serious, not you, _you’re_ fine-”

Onmund must have worn a concerning face, because Alrek immediately dropped any hint of playfulness and began fussing over him.

“I’m so sorry, are you alright? Do you need to sit down? Please, say something-” There it was, guilt. He was _guilty._ Out of all the things, guilt? For _him?_

Gods, he was so pretty and talented and skilled and- and nice. Why did he even bother with him? Why was he even looking at him like that, why did he care?

Unless…

No, not that… it couldn’t be. Alrek was better than him in every way. He was brought back to the teasing when he was younger; how his infatuation with a hunter’s daughter ended in humiliation. But this felt different, Alrek seemed genuinely remorseful over what he did. Did he really care? 

He couldn’t know for sure, but Onmund didn’t dare hope. He shook his head, trying to quash the thoughts but instead sending him off balance and stumbling away.

“Onmund?”

“Sorry,” he began, finally finding his words. “You just… took me by surprise.” He tried to gather his nerves, before the whole class could stare more, “Are uh, are Bretons usually so… forward?”

“I was just being stupid.” He melted at the sight of Alrek’s gentle smile, “No, we’re not at all like that, I promise.”

Onmund looked down and away. Casting spells suddenly seemed impossible.

“Here, let me make it up to you,” Alrek offered. What was he thinking? He didn’t have to, it was kindness after kindness, more than he was ever spared, but he made no move to stop him, “Let me buy you a drink, or dinner?”

“I thought the food was free?”

Gods, the way Alrek smiled, Onmund wanted nothing more than to freeze that image in his mind and keep it there forever, “You’re right, it is, but I can pull some strings to get something nicer for you, if you’d like. So, name your price.”

“I couldn’t…”

“I insist.”

He shook his head, but considered the offer. “Well, maybe you could help me with my wards?”

Silence filled the air for a moment. Onmund suddenly wished for the floor to swallow him whole.

Then, Talos above and below, the way he held up his hands over his mouth to stifle his laughter-

_‘I made him laugh, I made him laugh, I made him laugh-’_

The way his rings clinked together, how the diamond teardrops dangling from his ears danced in the light…

“-Very well, one ward casting lesson it is then!” Alrek positioned himself as he did before, guiding Onmund to a proper stance. A relaxed form, a concentrated focus, Alrek peppered each point of his stance with tips only a skilled mage would know: “Don’t lock your knees, keep your breathing steady.”

“Alright, now try it. Cast the ward.”

Onmund tried to remember the notes he had taken during the lecture. Steadying his stance, he let the magic flow through him as Alrek suggested, and sure enough, the familiar heat of magic began to pool at his palms…

And there, before him, was a ward. It glimmered and sparkled, not as bright as Tolfdir’s, and the edges wobbled and wavered… but there it was, a ward.

“Excellent work, Onmund! Everyone, come see,” Tolfdir motioned for the students to approach, “This is a wonderful example of a ward, notice the way he’s standing?”

He couldn’t help the proud smile that spread across his face. ‘Excellent work.’ He practically beamed. It had been his first time, and yet- there it was, a ward, strong and sure, cast from his own hands.

“I think we’ve got ourselves a master in the making, Tolfdir,” Alrek remarked.

“That we do, my boy! Perhaps he’ll join you in your studies soon, mm?”

Onmund couldn’t take his eyes off Alrek then, and he froze in place when the Breton met his gaze with a soft, gentle look.

_‘Excellent work.’_

_‘A master in the making.’_

There was a nervous fluttering in his chest, a happy one. The way the other apprentices gathered around him, eyes wide in awe, the proud grin Tolfdir gave him, the way his friends praised his abilities… the way Alrek looked at him.

Onmund couldn’t have asked for a better start to his stay at the College.


	10. The Path Ahead

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Onmund comes to terms with the kindness and safety that the College of Winterhold offers, and receives a mysterious invitation from Alrek. Meanwhile, Svana soon finds herself on the path to Whiterun to spread word to Jarl Balgruuf, but even the simplest plans go awry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to take a moment to thank everyone who has commented, read, viewed, kudos-ed and otherwise supported this fic. Moth and I have worked so hard on this and I can't wait to show everyone what we have in store. I think it's safe to say that our chapter count is going to be well over 50 (but we'll... temper those ambitions).
> 
> Anyway, thank you again for taking the time to read this! We'd love to hear your feedback!

Alvor’s forge wasn’t unlike the one Svana apprenticed at in Kynesgrove. The fires burned hot, the metal sang with each hit of the hammer, and displayed on a simple wooden rack, were impressive weapons and tools to serve the people of Riverwood.

Svana didn’t know how long she slept for. Judging by the cool breeze and gentle singing of the insects in the grass, it was either late in the afternoon or early in the evening. Hadvar had taken his leave, probably off to see Ralof, and Sigrid had given her permission to explore their town if she wished. “Just be back for supper!”

The town was quaint enough, with bright mountain flowers peeking out from bushes and wooden fences. The river sparkled in golds and pinks as the sky waned into darkness, and the inn sang with merriment and mead. 

But it was the forge that drew her in first. She wrapped the borrowed over-cloak around her shoulders tighter as the wind picked up, and made her way around the house. Leaning against the wooden frame of the house, and watched Alvor at the forge. She couldn’t help but smile at the way Dorthe tried to help in any way she could.

“Ah, there you are, you’re finally up!” Alvor gave her a big, friendly grin over the fire. He wiped the sweat off his brow, smearing dirt across his skin as he did. “How are you feeling?”

Svana shrugged. “Rested, I guess.”

“You guess?”

She pushed herself off the wall. “Dreamt of dragons.”

It was a solemn answer, one Alvor empathized with. “I’m sorry.”

“Nothing to be sorry for, unless you brought the beast down to Helgen yourself.”

Alvor smiled grimly. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

“Papa!” Dorthe called, “Papa, I’m done!”

“Oh?”

The young girl bounded over excitedly, proudly presenting a misshapen knife in gloves too big for her, “The front part’s a little wonky, but everything else looks okay!”

Alvor inspected it, giving it as much thought as he would any other weapon. “Well, I wouldn’t sell this in the shop,” Dorthe deflated, “But I think we can keep this one. My girl’s first knife!”

Svana smiled at the scene before her, “You want to apprentice for your Pa, Dorthe?”

The young girl gave a bashful smile, “Only if you don’t tell Mama.”

Svana winked. “Cross my heart.”

“Aye, you mentioned you were an apprentice yourself, what did you make?”

“A little bit of everything.” Svana shrugged, “I had days where I ran the forge myself, too!”

Alvor’s eyes widened with surprise. “That so? How long have you been apprenticing?”

A proud smile spread across her lips, “Since I could pick up a hammer.”

“Hear that Dorthe?” Alvor looked to his daughter, “She thinks she can do a better job than you!”

“Nuh-uh, no way!”

Alvor laughed, “Why don’t you show me what you can do? I’ve got some scrap iron you can use.”

Svana smiled at the opportunity. It was a welcome break from questions of Helgen, or dragons, or her brother. She shrugged off her over-cloak, and made her way to the forge. 

Like second nature to her, she began to select the iron scraps that Alvor had pointed out, checking the quality for any flaws. Then she moved to stoke the flames of the forge and melted the iron down. Though the forge wasn’t her usual one in Kynesgrove, her technique and timing were all there for Alvor to inspect.

She waited til the metal turned the right color before shaping it into a simple dagger- nothing fancy like what was sold in cities to mercenaries or nobility, but one an everyday person in Skyrim would use in their travels.

She smirked at the bit of flourish she liked to add, a simple knotwork detail into the blade, before finally finishing the dagger off.

The hilt was simple- wrapped in soft, supple leather, and tied masterfully. After the last bit of polish, Svana presented the gleaming blade for her host to inspect.

Alvor was impressed. Dorthe was starstruck.

“Aye, that’s good work lass,” Alvor picked up the blade, nodding in approval, “Your master must have been very proud of you.” He laughed, pleased with the result. “Keep it up and soon you’ll be working the Skyforge.”

Svana blushed at the compliment. “Oh, please, what nonsense!” She leaned against the wooden banister over the river, enjoying the cool breeze over her sweat-slicked skin. “I just make nails, mostly.”

“And yet everybody needs nails!” Alvor gave her a good-natured pat on the shoulder, “I think Dorthe might have found herself a new idol.”

Svana knelt down as Dorthe approached her, hands behind her back, shy as a fawn. “Mama says I shouldn’t do this stuff, it’s not very ladylike.”

Svana scoffed at that. “Don’t worry about it,” she said, patting the girl on her head, “Don’t remember any skald-songs singin’ about ladies not being allowed near the forge.”

Dorthe gasped in realization. “That’s true.”

“Plenty of songs about shield-maidens and warrior women though, and tell you what, they usually need a good blacksmith for all that upkeep.” 

There were practically stars in the young girl’s eyes as she hung on Svana’s every word.

Alvor laughed, “Don’t encourage her too much, lest her mother hunt you down for sport.”

As if on cue, Sigrid called from the kitchen window, “Dorthe! Can you help me set the table for dinner?”

The girl’s face dropped, but Svana tapped her on the chin affectionately, “Ay, but even good blacksmiths help their mothers in the kitchen.”

“Even you?”

A sad smile spread over Svana’s face. “Even me.” 

She missed them. All of them, even Onmund. Especially Onmund and Elsie.

_“-Dorthe!”_

“Coming, Mama!” And with that, she threw her gloves off, and ran into the house, only to be met with Sigrid’s disappointed sighs. Muck and dirt from the forge…again.

Svana got up and joined Alvor overlooking the river. The fading light in the sky painted the forest and river in hues of golds and reds. It was so painfully quaint and beautiful, Svana hated the thought that not too long ago a dragon had razed a village just like this.

She swallowed a lump in her throat, and hugged herself tighter against the cold air that began to settle in.

“I never got to thank you properly,” Alvor said after a long pause, “For bringing Hadvar and Ralof back. It…it was nice that you brought them home.”

“They looked like they were going to kill each other, who’d have guessed?” Svana never took her eyes off the water. It was the only way she knew to calm herself, a trick her Oma taught her so long ago. When anger boiled her blood or when the world seemed like too much, seeing her reflection in the water always reminded her of who she was. “Far as I knew, they were both someone’s sons- someone would’ve wanted them back.”

“That’s a kind thought,” a pause, “Thank you.”

But the quiet that seemed to befall them hadn’t been an easy one. There was a sadness to the way Alvor gripped the wooden banister, the way his brows furrowed in frustration.

“This war’s going to do a lot more than keep those two boys apart.”

Svana said nothing. There was nothing she could. She knew nothing of war; what could she say to a family so deeply affected by it?

“-My brother, Hadvar’s father, died in the Great War. Fighting for a cause we knew we couldn’t win but… we had to try.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be, those are old hurts, old wounds.” Alvor matched her gaze, watching the water’s reflections. “But with dragons now flying about…” He shook his head. “I don’t know.”

Svana looked to him, silently urging him to finish his thought.

“If the soldiers don’t tear up Skyrim one hold at a time, then those dragons are going to make a mess of things sooner or later.”

That was a terrifying thought, and a fear Svana wanted to keep to herself. But Alvor had mirrored it word-for-word, and she wondered if the news had spread to her village yet. Would they be forced to move? Where would they even go?

“You’ve done me and my family a great kindness bringing Hadvar home in one piece… but news of the dragons? That’s going to keep me awake at night. And if the soldiers are all cut loose and running wild…” 

He pushed himself off the banister and looked to Svana with all the seriousness a Nord could possess. “I need to ask for one more favor.”

Svana straightened up. “I’m all ears.”

She could see he struggled with asking more from her, as he rubbed his arms and cast down his gaze. “If trouble really is coming our way, then the Jarl needs to know.”

She only scoffed in reply. “What could the Jarl do?”

Alvor shrugged. “Spare some guards, maybe spread the word to the other holds- either way, don’t you think all of Skyrim should know if a dragon’s coming?”

“Dragons are hard to miss.” It wasn’t that she didn’t want to help, but… it seemed so futile. “What could anyone even do? Can a dragon even be killed?”

He sighed, tired and defeated. “I don’t know. But we need to be prepared somehow, even if it’s just knowing. Maybe we could all hide somewhere, figure out a way to kill it.”

“And the soldiers?”

Alvor frowned. “That I know the Jarl can help with- he hasn’t picked a side yet in the war, and I don’t think he plans to.”

“So you want me to send word to the Jarl?”

“I wouldn’t want to send you off into the night, but if you leave soon, you could make it to Whiterun by nightfall. Once you’re there, you can speak to the Jarl first thing in the morning.”

Svana looked around the village, trying to get her bearings and make sense of things, but nothing looked familiar at all. She was used to the lush, autumn-colored forests of the Rift, the flat lands of Eastmarch and the snowy peaks of the northern shore. The rolling hills and tan farmlands were not at all what she was accustomed to in the slightest. 

She didn’t even know Skyrim could look like this. She was out of her element, that much was clear. But someone had to do something.

“Enough. How do I get to Whiterun?”

Alvor snorted in amusement. “Before you go finding yourself some trouble, have a meal with us first. Then I’d recommend talking to the traders— get some supplies for the trip. You can take the road north to the city, it’s a straight shot from there.”

“If he hadn’t picked a side in the war— do you think he’d lend a helping hand?” Svana was cautious, she always found it hard to find any good-nature in nobility. The Thanes of her hold did nothing but get drunk, harass villagers and demand higher taxes.

So what was a Jarl going to do in a situation like this?

“I know everyone says this about their leaders, but Jarl Balgruuf the Greater isn’t like the others,” Alvor spoke as if he had some personal experience in dealing with him. “He’d listen, and he’d spread the word.”

Svana wanted to help. These people were at the mercy of dragons and soldiers overlooking their village entirely. And with the way the world went when it came to mindless destruction, quaint villages like these were so often the first to go. Helgen being a recent example in Svana’s experience.

She relented. “Alright. A quick meal, then I’ll be off.”

“Thank you, Svana,” Alvor smiled. Quietly, he added, “Talos guide you.”

Her journey had been set then. After a quiet meal with the family, Svana accepted what gear they could lend her, and set off to the Riverwood Trader.

Stepping through the threshold of the shop, she was accosted by the all-too familiar sound of siblings bickering.

Lessons had drawn to a close in the College of Winterhold. Apprentices filed out of study halls with large tomes in hands, bracing the cold chill of the north as they hurried back to their quarters. As the winds blew around them, small wisps caught onto dangling jewelry and loosely worn hoods of the apprentices, seeking lazy, simple respite against the cold air. A haze of multicolored orbs floated between and behind students, everyone equally desperate to sit by a fire and tend to their studies in peace.

It had been a very insightful session, and already, Onmund’s journal was half-filled with everything Tolfdir (and Alrek) had shared for the day. He ducked out of the way of the stream of apprentices as he watched for any signs of Brelyna and J’zargo. A wisp nestled against his hood as he waited, its warm, tingling buzz a reminder of his place in the halls soaked in ancient magic. He raised a finger to pet it, smiling when the ethereal creature leaned into his touch.

“There you are!” Onmund looked down in surprise to find none other than Alrek Allard.

_“Oh!”_

“I’m sorry, I hope I didn’t catch you at a bad time?”

Onmund looked around, his friends still nowhere in sight- just how many students could fit in this hall? 

“-No, I’m… just waiting for the others actually.” Onmund folded his arms across his chest, hoping to come off as more stoic and put-together than how he felt on the inside. “W-what about you?”

Divines, he could practically melt at anything Alrek did, but that smile would be his doom.

“I still feel terrible about what happened earlier.”

Onmund blinked, taken off-guard. “Really? I mean…it’s no big deal.”

“No, it was! I shouldn’t have said something like that and embarrassed you. It was very inconsiderate of me.”

“Well, you did teach me how to put up wards, so…” Onmund shrugged, trying his hardest to regain any semblance of control over his emotions. “Y-you’re good.”

Alrek though, didn’t seem convinced in the slightest. “Are you sure? Please, at the very least, could I at least buy you something for dinner?”

Onmund was tempted. Growing up less than fortunate his entire life meant he rarely had the chance to be picky about food. It was either eat what was served or go hungry. At least he learned to appreciate leeks and root vegetables when meat became scarce. 

_'Too easy,'_ he thought, it’d be too easy to simply ask Alrek to give him something exotic or sweet, something even his family would balk at.

But Alrek looked so sincere…

“-I can’t,” Onmund waved away, “Please, really, it’s alright.”

“Perhaps…” Alrek tapped his chin, “Perhaps I could accompany you for dinner, then?”

Just then, he caught the sight of Brelyna and J’zargo among the thinning crowd of students, the Khajiit excitedly waving at him over the others.

“Well, see, the thing is…”

Alrek turned to match Onmund’s gaze, and to his heartbreak, he heard Alrek sigh.

“I see.”

“D-don’t take it the wrong way,” Onmund tried, “It’s just that I promised them a meal together first”

Alrek smiled, though Onmund wasn’t sure if it wasn’t hiding disappointment, or if he was genuinely alright with being rejected.

Oh, gods. He _had_ rejected him, didn’t he?

“I completely understand,” Alrek smoothed down the front of his black robes, a mark of a more experienced mage in Winterhold, and flashed another one of his dashing smiles. “Don’t worry about it, I wouldn’t want you to break promises with your friends.”

Onmund wasn’t quite sure what to say, so he simply nodded in affirmation.

“Though, consider it at least? You’re quite the intriguing fellow, and I find myself wanting to get to know you better,” Alrek said, turning. “I’ll see you around, Onmund.”

He said his name. He said his name! Alrek said his name. He remembered his name. By the Nine, a man that beautiful had said his name without any inflection of mockery or hate and- good gods, he had rejected him.

He watched as Alrek sauntered off to cross the courtyard, lengthy blood-red hair blowing in silky tendrils in the wind, before pulling it all into his hood and making the trek indoors. Back straight and shoulders square, he walked with an elegant stride that reminded him of the royals and princes from books he read as a child.

“There you are!” Brelyna dragged Onmund out of his reverie, “Goodness, I didn’t think we’d make it out of the crowds!”

“This one did say to wait until the others left first,” J’zargo reminded.

“Well, we’re all here now and-” Brelyna caught the shadow of Alrek ducking into the Hall of the Elements, “I saw him talking to you.”

“Who?” Onmund pretended.

Brelyna frowned, “You know, you don’t have to let him say things like that to you.”

“That is true, J’zargo would have just blasted the fool for even daring to speak in such a demeaning way!”

Onmund kept petting the wisp on his shoulder, a momentary comfort, “It’s fine, Brelyna,” he smiled, “But I’m really grateful you two are looking out for me.”

“If he says anything like that to you again,” Brelya put on a brave face, “You come right to us and we’ll sort him out.”

Onmund couldn’t help but smile at the bravado his friends wore. Truly, it had been so different compared to his siblings. He believed it wholeheartedly when Brelyna and J’zargo said they’d defend his honor.

“He just wanted to have dinner with me.”

The answer made his friends blink in dumbstruck wonder.

“He…wanted to have dinner with you.” Brelyna repeated.

“Are you _sure?”_ J’zargo raised a brow, “How strange… This one would have expected him to laugh at you further.”

Onmund shrugged, “I told him I promised you two a meal together, and he just kinda wandered off afterwards. He kept insisting on buying me something, I think he felt really bad about what happened earlier.”

His answer certainly brought a smile to his friends. “Really?” Brelyna asked, “You said you’d have a meal with us first?”

Onmund nodded.

“Oh, friend,” J’zargo did his best to reach up and around Onmund’s large shoulders, “This one knows it has been said already, but you? This one likes you a lot.”

The three of them (and their new wisp) bundled themselves together into the warmth of the hall, shrugging off their heavy cloaks and changing into more comfortable clothes for the upcoming meal. Onmund pulled on a simple shirt, one of the few he had been able to grab before running off that fateful night.

Just as he searched through his belongings for a belt, his hands felt something cold and metal in the bundle of clothes carelessly heaped into his closet.

His breath caught in his throat as he pulled it out. A simple silver amulet, with a bright sapphire set in the center. In Nordic runes, the names of his family members were lovingly engraved in a circle around the jewel. Lothgar. Ulla. Svana. Elsie. 

_Onmund._

His family amulet.

Svana had made it for him when he had turned sixteen, the age all Nords seemed to agree when a boy became a man. His father had thrown a celebratory feast for him, boasting to the rest of the village of his son. How he’d help provide for the family, and maybe have some grandchildren to dote on.

Of all the heartbreaks, this one hurt the most to keep. But no matter what Onmund did, he could never throw it away. It was a badge of honor, to both him and his family. 

Especially his mother. She would embroider his best shirts with expensive blue thread he didn’t know they could afford to match the jewels in his amulet. She was always the first to introduce him to the other children at temple gatherings, boasting of how handsome and kind he was to every other mother with an available son or daughter. But every year that spirit dwindled, until eventually he elected not to go to the gatherings at all.

She was so proud of him. And he still disappointed her at every turn. 

There was a stinging in his eyes that wasn’t there before. He blinked hastily to ward off the tears.

“Onmund?” Brelyna’s voice sounded from behind his closed door, “Onmund?”

“C-come in!” he hastily stuffed it back into his closet, shutting it with such force he almost knocked the poor wisp that had followed him off its place on the shelves.

“Oh! I’m sorry.” Brelyna stepped back, her hand over her heart. “Is everything alright?”

Brelyna’s form glistened before him and he felt how his eyes pricked with heat. He dabbed at them. “Sorry, just… remembered I hadn’t put away all my things just yet.”

Talos bless Brelyna for never pushing more than she needed to. She took a seat at the edge of the bed. “Well, I do have some good news, if you’d like to hear it before we go off to dinner.”

“Good news?”

That’s when Onmund noticed a pretty blue box in her hand, lovingly wrapped up with a silver ribbon. “Our favorite person- that’s Alrek, by the way- said he felt really, really terrible about what happened.” Brelyna’s expression was so smug and so pleased with herself that Onmund had to fight a chuckle.

“He… he said that?”

“He was looking for you, but Muthsera Fancy-Pants couldn’t figure out which room was yours, so he came looking for me. He wanted me to tell you that he’s sorry and got you these anyway.”

Brelyna handed him the box, now so small in Onmund’s much larger hands. “What is it?”

“Wanna open it and find out?” He smiled at the playfulness in her voice. Though Onmund had to admit, his curiosity was piqued. What could Alrek have wanted to give so badly that he sought to bother Brelyna about it?

He tugged the silver ribbon loose and pulled the lid open. Inside were balls of chocolates, each with different toppings and flavors, wrapped in delicate paper that seemed to flutter in the air.

Onmund balked. “Where’d he even get this all the way here?”

Brelyna shrugged. “With the kind of money he has? I’d say it wouldn’t be too hard to manage.”

Of course. His wealth. Onmund couldn’t imagine that sort of power. To be able to flash a bit of gold and get whatever you desired.

“Oh, what’s that?”

He heard the gentle tap of a card fall to the floor. Placing the box of chocolates on a nearby table, he bent down and read the message aloud.

_Meet me at the observatory after dinner. - A_

Something stirred in Onmund then. Something strange, yet exciting, frightening yet desirable. He wanted to meet? Alone? Gods…This felt…familiar. “W-what should I do?”

“You don’t have to do anything he says,” Brelyna cautioned. She had history with him, didn’t she? She’d have better advice. “If you don’t want to go see him, you don’t have to. And if he finds me again to bother me about it, I’ll send him away.”

Onmund sat down beside Brelyna, offering the chocolates to her as he took a bite out of one. Rich. Dark. Bitter… yet sweet? Flavors he had never experienced before. It made his tongue ache for more, and it was pure restraint that stopped him from taking the entire box and downing it all in one go.

“How well do you know Alrek?” He asked, and immediately regretted it. It felt awkward to ask, and he rushed to explain himself, “I mean, you said you studied with him?”

“I’ll admit, I just know him as… well, I wouldn’t call him a rival, but my parents always made comparisons.”

“I know how that feels.”

Brelyna sighed. “It’s not his fault, I mean…” She leaned forward, taking careful bites out of the offered desert, “My magic manifested so much later than everyone else in my family, so he had plenty of time ahead of me. But it made me mad every time my mother said something like,” and here, she mimicked an unapologetically Dunmeri accent, “How dare you call yourself a Telvanni when that Allard boy has completed all his courses before you!”

There was no humor in the mockery. Onmund patted Brelyna on her shoulder, as the wisp abandoned the wardrobe to nest in her lap. “That’s…I’m sorry.”

“It’s not Alrek’s fault, but… every time I saw him during Tolfdir’s lecture I couldn’t help but think that it should’ve been me up there.”

Onmund frowned. “I know what that’s like.”

“Really?”

He nodded. “My parents wanted me to be a farmer. Or a hunter. Y’know, something practical. Something _Nordic._ They’d point out to the other boys in my village and say _you should be more like Olaf Bone-Head, he can swing three oxen with his left hand alone.”_

Brelyna laughed at the mimicry.

“A lot of people in my village ended up making fun of me. Or, you know, hating me. If they weren’t trying to humiliate me, they were trying to hurt me. My mother eventually just told me to keep to the house. She wouldn’t let me go out on my own without her, not even to the markets.”

“Oh gods, Onmund, I’m so sorry.”

Onmund shrugged, “That’s all behind me now.” He bumped her playfully with his elbow, “I’ve got you, I’ve got J’zargo…”

Brelyna gave a playful smirk, confidence returning, “And maybe Muthsera Alrek?”

Onmund blushed.

“I don’t hate him, you know,” Brelyna said gently, “If he makes you happy, I’ll only make sure he doesn’t do anything to hurt you.”

“Really?”

“He’s just annoying, but I know his family- they’re not underhanded or anything like that. My family, House Telvanni, are close to them. We'd know.”

“Excuse me?” The familiar purr of a Ta’agra accent dragged them both out of their conversation. J’zargo folded his arms across his chest and tapped his foot against the floor. “Have we all forgotten about dinner? This one is starving and finds you two gossiping? Without J’zargo?”

Brelyna laughed and offered the box of chocolates to J’zargo, “Here, our favorite Breton in the whole wide world gave Onmund some chocolates.”

“Hmph! Perhaps it is the only useful thing he has done since his sorry introduction,” J’zargo managed through a mouthful of sweets.

“C’mon, let’s head up to the hall before the seats are all taken.”

“-I said _no_ thief-chasing!”

“Well someone’s got to do something, or are we just going to let those thieves come back another time and take more?”

Svana had no idea what she had stepped into. Before her were two siblings, arguing, oblivious to the world around them. At first she politely waited by the door, hoping to intervene during a pause.

But they kept going at it.

“It’s dangerous! For _Divines’_ sake Camilla, do you even hear yourself sometimes?”

And her patience began wearing thin. 

“Oh, excuse me, _Lucan_ , I suppose you have a better idea?”

That was when Svana very deliberately, and very loudly, coughed.

The two of them, Lucan and Camilla, blinked at her, surprised by her sudden presence.

“Oh! Uh… a customer!”

“Oh, my…”

Svana rolled her shoulders and shifted the axe in her belt. “Are you open?”

“Well, despite what you may have overheard,” Lucan cast an angry glance at Camilla, “The Riverwood Trader _is_ open for business!”

“Thought you got robbed.” Svana deadpanned. 

Lucan sputtered, “W-well, we _did,_ but not to worry! Plenty of things for sale still! Robbers were only after one thing.”

Svana waved him off before he could continue. “Listen, I don’t have much money for supplies, but… how much could I get for this?” Svana held out the dagger she had made earlier from Alvor’s forge, now polished, finished and made presentable.

He eyed it skeptically. “Well…”

Camilla butted in, “What do you need supplies for?”

“I came from Helgen.”

Camilla looked to Lucan, whose own surprise matched his sister’s. “You came from all the way there? Didn’t a fire break out and burn the whole place to the ground?”

“It was a dragon,” Svana said curtly.

The two siblings only blinked in utter confusion and disbelief. Svana realized her words too late. How could she prove it? All she had was her word, and a stranger’s word at that. 

“Or, I dunno, maybe the soldiers burned the place to the ground, what do I know? All I know is that I saw fire, and where there’s smoke, there’s trouble.”

Thankfully, the siblings bought the new story without question.

“That’s why I need to get to Whiterun, I need supplies to make the trip,” Svana looked to them both, suddenly aware of the weight of the favor being asked of her, “I need to send word to the Jarl, so he could at least do something about it.”

It was a futile effort, but what could anyone do? It wasn't as if Svana had a better idea.

“Oh for Mara’s love, Lucan, if she’s going to be warning the Jarl about trouble, I’m sure we could offer something for that pretty blade.”

Lucan wrinkled his nose, but there was no denying the gravity of the situation. “Well… we can probably spare some supplies. Not like travellers come through here often anymore.”

“There we go,” Camilla smiled smugly, relishing in the fact that she was, no doubt, right once again.

“-The road to Whiterun’s fairly quiet, but with all this talk of soldiers, wouldn’t hurt to have something to keep yourself safe.” Lucan presented two bottles of red potion, jars of salve, a roll of bandages, and packaged dried meat. “It’s all I can spare.”

Truthfully, Svana wasn’t even sure if this was more than enough. When she set off to find Onmund, she left with little more than the clothes on her back. But she wasn’t about to turn away any kindness, not if it meant keeping her safer on her travels. 

“Thank you,” she said, pushing the dagger to Lucan and taking the rest of the offered items into her pack.

“Do you know the way to Whiterun?” Camilla asked, “Are you from around here?”

Svana shook her head, “I was just told to take the road north.”

“I’ll show you the wa-”

“ _No._ ” Lucan stamped his foot on the floor. “Absolutely not.”

“I’m just showing her the way.”

Lucan folded his arms across his chest.

“It’s just to the edge of town!”

Lucan’s mouth pursed into a thin white line before he finally relented. “Fine, but only to the bridge.”

Svana had to hand it to Camilla, the woman certainly knew how to get what she wanted.

“Come on, let’s get you going then, hmm?” Camilla linked her arms in Svana’s and the two walked out into the cool evening air. The other villagers were preparing for the night, with lanterns being lit outside of homes and along the narrow road. 

If Svana closed her eyes, she could pretend she was walking Elsie back home from the blacksmith’s.

“Soldiers and fires are serious business, you think the Jarl would help?” Camille asked idly.

Svana could only offer a shrug, “I dunno. Maybe? It’s something, isn’t it?”

Camilla hummed.

The village wasn’t very big, little wonder how everyone knew each other, Svana thought. Even Kynesgrove was larger by comparison. Past the wooden houses, the women came upon a stone bridge that led to a fork in the road.

“The north road,” Camilla pointed helpfully, “There are plenty of signs along the roads, and it’s pretty straightforward.”

“Any landmarks to look out for?”

“Keep walking ‘til you see the Honningbrew Meadery,” Camilla advised, “Once you see that, Whiterun’s not far off. And anyway, if you’re really lost, there are lots of farms along the way that’d be happy to help, I’m sure.”

Svana nodded. Alright, her destination was set. She began to take her first steps northward when Camilla stopped her.

“If you’re going to warn the Jarl, here,” And from her pack, she produced the dagger Svana had tried to sell to her brother, “I know you’ve got an axe, but a dagger’s got more use if you’re going to be travelling along these roads.”

“But…”

Camilla wouldn’t hear it, “You’re doing us a kindness by telling the Jarl. We were worried when the soldiers and all this fighting would reach us. Someone’s got to send word.”

“Are you sure?”

Camilla frowned. “I heard about what happened at Helgen. I wouldn’t want that following us home, we don’t have any protection from something like a raid… and Helgen had huge stone walls.”

Suddenly her journey seemed much more grim.

“It’s the least I can do. Please, the sooner you get to Whiterun, the sooner we can all sleep peacefully at night.”

“Thank you,” Svana smiled, “Really, this is very generous of you.”

“Don’t thank me yet, go on, daylight’s wasting!”

The path to Whiterun lay ahead, and Svana began her journey proper into the golden plains of Skyrim.


	11. Painted Lights

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delay everyone! Hope you've all been keeping safe! Moth and I have been hard at work plotting up nefarious schemes to delight everyone! So we wanted to take a little more time to polish these chapters up before they go live! Either way, hope you enjoy the new addition, this is one of my personal favorite chapters ;)

The observatory level of Winterhold was breathtaking. 

When Onmund emerged before the night sky, the gentle whistles blowing in from tall, mighty mountains were the first to reach his ears. The Sea of Ghosts clawed in mad waves against the rocks and cliffs below, dark and inky like an extension of the night sky. Legends told him when he was young, that the Sea of Ghosts was not named in vain- spectres and spirits haunted its icy depths, calling out to anyone who would hear to help guide them to Sovngarde’s hallowed halls.

_‘A fitting place for a magical college’_ , he thought.

He didn’t know what convinced him to come up to the observatory after dinner. Had this all been a ruse? He wouldn’t be surprised if it was. It wouldn’t be the first time, and with Alrek looking the way he did, beautiful and regal, he wouldn’t put it past him to poke fun at his infatuation. 

He walked along the parapet, gliding his fingers over the frost contemplatively. Everyone knew at this point. Who was he to earn the affections of someone like Alrek?

Onmund sighed, doubting himself. He stopped in the middle of the stone pathway, debating if he should take another step forward. This must be some sort of joke. Make him wait here, pining helplessly, until something, somewhere eventually went wrong. All at his expense, of course.

But Alrek had been kind, hadn’t he? He’d apologized over and over again.

_‘It’s different this time’_ , he wanted to believe. _‘I’ll just walk around the observatory, get some fresh air. If nothing comes up, no harm done, right?’_

So he swallowed those fears and resumed his walk. At least he had company, the wisp from earlier snuggled lazily against his neck, content to sit on his shoulder.

But disappointment set in fast, when he saw no sign of Alrek anywhere. There were a few senior mages peering through telescopes and jotting down notes, but no shock of red hair in sight-

_“Alrek, tu es trop dur avec toi-même.”_

The inflection of a Breton accent. He had never heard Bretic spoken before, only read how the words and letters were shaped, but never spoken. It looked so strange on paper, in books, but to hear it? Even the wisp was curious, floating ahead as though to hear the conversation better.

Rounding the corner, he saw both Alrek and Camille, seated at an alcove that overlooked the ocean in all her dark anger. 

_“Je ne peux pas m'en empêcher.”_

The books were not wrong; it was a delightful language to hear. Onmund stayed in the shadows for a spell, watching the twins sit side by side, their gaze fixed on waves below them. Camille strummed a few notes on his lute in between pauses, more thoughtful and contemplative than anything musical.

_“Ayez la fo- Oh!”_ Camille spotted Onmund in the shadows, _“Le voilà!”_

Onmund stepped out from behind the pillar, his large frame so meek in all his shyness. “S-sorry, I didn’t want to interrupt.” Even the wisp took solace in his hair, a braid draped over it.

“Well, that depends,” Camille tossed a lazy grin, “How much did you hear?”

Onmund shrugged. “I uh, I had no idea what you’re saying.”

Alrek turned then, eyes so bright they seemed to glow. “Maybe I’ll teach you some Bretic, if you’re patient.”

“Start with the naughty words,” Camille giggled, playfully strumming his lute as he excused himself, “Oh, and Alrek? You owe me fifty silvers.”

Alrek patted the spot beside him, inviting Onmund to come sit, as the wisp floated down to nestle in the palms of his hands.

“I suppose Brelyna sent you the chocolates?” Alrek said, tucking a long lock of hair behind his pointed ears, “Did you like them?”

Onmund smiled, “I did!” But his smile dimmed, saying, “I don’t understand why you did it though, you don’t have to do any of this.”

Alrek turned to face him fully, and it was here Onmund realized he hadn’t been wearing his college robes. He wore a thick over-cloak made of dark velvet, lined with fur so soft it practically danced in the night air. His rings were still stacked on his fingers, as were the diamond teardrops that hung from his ears. If the moonlight was any brighter, Onmund feared the wisp might just steal Alrek’s earrings away.

“I wanted to.”

Onmund gave a bashful smile, “I mean, it’s really sweet but…why?”

“To make a good impression on you.”

“I think you did that pretty well, already.”

“Have I?” Genuine curiosity laced Alrek’s words.

Onmund nodded. “When I saw you with the other apprentices that first day. When Faralda showed us what you could do, what we all could do.”

Alrek waved him off, “Nonsense, I didn’t want to do it initially, but I couldn’t possibly pass up such a simple favor.”

“You didn’t want to do it?”

“I don’t like showing off.” A beat, “Perhaps a small part of me does, but a lot went into my training- most apprentices don’t get to the level I’m at this young. But you? I think you could.”

Hope fluttered in his chest. “You really think so?”

“I felt it when we were training with the wards,” Alrek smiled. He seemed so sure of himself, Onmund had a hard time disbelieving him.

Onmund was unsure of what to say then. Had he meant it? Did he really think he had such potential? The wisp seemed to read his mind and nuzzled against his palm, as if to reassure him.

He shook his head, not allowing his mind to wander any longer. “But why? Why are you doing all this?” 

“I thought we covered that.”

“No, I mean… there’s got to be other people you could be talking to, right? Maybe a senior mage? Some journeymen?” His fingers found themselves again, lacing in anxiety, and the wisp made a game of climbing over his hands, “I’m…I’m just an apprentice.”

He couldn’t read Alrek’s expression, perfectly cool and collected. He briefly wondered how he managed such control, if it had been part of his training as a mage or embedded in his personality.

“I truly do want to get to know you better. You intrigue me, you have such a bright personality and attitude. It’s refreshing.”

“Really?”

“You’ll forgive me, it’s just so many mages get so cynical- myself included. Why do you think I hang around people like Camille?”

He nearly said, _‘Because he’s your brother?’_ before stopping himself. Onmund thought back to the other mages he had seen in his brief stay at Winterhold. The apprentices had all been very eager, yes, but those with more senior rank and title were brusque, impatient, tolerating little of those they deemed beneath them. 

All save for Alrek and Camille Allard.

“But I can’t be the only one.”

“I’ve been keeping an eye on you- not that I’ve been deliberately spying, but it seems that with your journey through the Destruction school, we cross many paths. You even managed to borrow a favorite textbook of mine.”

Onmund blushed at that. Had they? Onmund truly hadn’t noticed. In all his days at the college, he had only stuck close to Brelyna and J’zargo. 

“I think you’re charming. And you seem genuine and eager to actually improve your skill.”

“Isn’t that why everyone else is here?”

“That’s true, but you’re the only person I’ve seen that doesn’t take advantage of others on your way up.”

“I just started.” Onmund hadn’t meant to deflect so much, but Alrek’s own interest in him was baffling.

“A good first step, albeit small, is still a first step.” Alrek began pouring himself a glass of wine, “Do you drink?”

“Just uh, just mead.”

He nodded in understanding. “Of course, I ought to remember to bring a bottle next time.”

_‘Next time’_. Onmund hung onto those words.

“So…you didn’t just come up here to offer me wine,” he tried, “What do you want?”

Alrek let out a gentle laugh, unbothered by the accusation. He took a sip from his wine and pursed his lips pensively before answering. 

“Can I make a confession?”

Onmund’s expression begged him to continue. Even the wisp seemed to still to hear what the other mage had to say.

“I haven’t the faintest idea.”

Onmund furrowed his brow in confusion. The wisp buzzed in dissatisfaction. That was not the answer he had been expecting, for sure. 

Invigorated by the admission, Alrek continued. “I was so convinced that you wouldn’t come to meet me, and why would you? It’s freezing up here.” He shook his head and laughed. “What was I thinking?”

Freezing? Maybe to a Breton, but to Onmund, the night air was hardly a chill.

“You thought I wouldn’t come?”

“You’ve made fast friends with Brelyna and J’zargo,” Alrek said, swirling his glass, “No reason for you to hang around a mage aiming for his mastery ritual, and one who’s about as dour as this weather, to boot.”

“I don’t think you’re dour.”

“Ah, there it is, that charming positivity that drew me to you.”

In that moment, Onmund wanted so badly for those words to mean what he wanted them to. But why would Alrek, so eloquent and educated, waste his time with Onmund? Had he been reading too deeply into Alrek’s words? Was he just being friendly?

“-All I’ve got to offer is some time, and some wine. Interested? No hard feelings if you’d rather go back down into the warmth.”

Onmund smiled, trying to mirror Alrek’s confidence. “Sure, I’ve got time. I don’t really have much to do tonight.”

“Famous last words.”

“I’m just surprised you didn’t have a plan, though,” Onmund matched Alrek’s gaze to the ocean below, “You seem so well put together.”

“Well, I suppose you just have that effect on me.”

Talos above and below, everything was moving so quickly for him.

He remembered, not too long ago, rising before dawn to feed the chickens and tend to the farm. Bracing himself during breakfast when his family engaged in idle conversation. Trying his hardest not to mention magic or spells or wizards or- 

There was no use in thinking about it now. He loosed a sigh he hadn’t realized he was holding.

Of course, Alrek noticed. “Everything alright?” He sounded more inquisitive than concerned.

“It’s just-” He paused, lost for words. What would he even say? Would he understand? Would Alrek even care? Onmund looked to those rings again. Gold bands inlaid with jewels so large they could easily feed his family for months, if not a year.

Would he understand what he had left behind in Kynesgrove? The shouting and screaming, but so too the gentle, tender moments? The family he left?

“It’s just… I’ve come such a long way and I can’t believe everyone’s been so nice to me.”

Alrek’s voice was soothing when he spoke, like the first summer rain. “You’re among your peers now,” he said, reaching over and patting him on his hands, palms unusually warm. The wisp, disturbed from its place, buzzed with annoyance and floated back to Onmund’s shoulder. 

“It’s nice seeing someone enthusiastic about bettering themselves as a mage.” 

Onmund could have melted with the way Alrek squeezed his hand, mind protesting as he eventually pulled away. 

A mage. That’s what he was now, wasn’t he? Not just the son of some farmer. Not just the village mistake.

“Look,” Alrek’s voice was a breathless wonder. It didn’t quite register to Onmund at first, but then he saw the dancing lights and the ribbons of colors streaking through a star-speckled sky.

He had seen them a thousand times, peeking over the mountains in his village, when the nights kept him up and he spent them gazing out the windows alongside Elsie. But up on the observatory, over the cliffs of Winterhold, he could see them in all their beauty, as clear as the ice below them. 

“I’ve never seen anything like this before,” Alrek’s face was awash with the gentle glow of the northern lights. Even a few curious wisps peered over the ledge to see what all the fuss was about.

Onmund began to notice other mages peeking out from windows, and some scholars hurriedly looking through their telescopes to list down notes and observations, whispering to each other in excited delight.

“You don’t get these in High Rock?” Onmund asked, voice low in quiet reverence.

“I’ve only seen it in paintings…the actual thing is- I have no words.”

They watched together as the lights blended into a beautiful harmony of colors, folding into one another, creating strokes of light in hues of pinks and greens.

“It’s beautiful,” Alrek whispered.

Onmund turned to him, and regarded Alrek with a lovesick gaze. Arms wrapped around himself, hair fluttering in the sea-breeze, a pointed nose, a pretty profile. He couldn’t help but note the blue of his eyes, the shape of his lips, fuller on the top. 

Onmund had no words for the beauty of the man who sat beside him.

“It is,” he quietly agreed, though his eyes never wandered back to the sky.

Evening began to settle in earnest. The stars sparkled high above and the moons peeked behind the clouds. The whistling wind rustled the grass, and the last of the birdsong began to make way for crickets. Playful luna moths fluttered in and around bushes of mountain flowers, while foxes hurriedly dashed across the old, cobbled road headed to Whiterun.

It was all Svana had for company, along with the crunch of her boots on the roads and the burning of her torchlight.

The journey out of Riverwood had been a fairly uneventful one. The roads were quiet, bright sparkling rivers and majestic evergreens made way for the lush, golden fields on the horizon. Humble homes dotted the landscape, glowing with warmth.

Svana pulled her cloak tighter around her and braced the journey forth. She could see the outline of a Jarl’s castle, illuminated by the setting sun and the lights from the city streets. It wouldn’t be much farther now, if she just kept on the road.

_‘Gods, what is happening?’_ She thought to herself as she rounded the bend, kicking rocks idly into the darkening sky. She woke one night to find her brother running off in a storm, a dragon attacked, and now she had become a messenger. Part of her regretted listening to Alvor, while the other urged her to keep going. _‘Am I really going to complain about getting a good night’s sleep when a dragon is flying about?’_

A nervous bubble burst in her gut as she remembered rolling into Helgen at the back of the Imperials’ cart. _‘Rolling.’_ How the soldiers’ heads rolled from the block, eyes still darting around as though clinging to that last thread of life. The tang of copper heavy in the air, and the choking black smoke. 

She shuddered. Gods. And all she wanted was to find Onmund and bring him home. There was no use in suppressing her agitated mind. 

_‘You shouldn’t have punched him.’_

_‘Why did he have to run?’_

_‘Talos above, if I could strangle him now I would.’_

_**‘You shouldn’t have punched him.’** _

“Well, hello there.”

The smell of mead and something vulgar was suddenly present in the air. Stopping dead in her tracks, Svana realised with growing horror, that she was not alone. 

Four brigands stood before her, armed with rusty weapons and leather armor. Not unlike the troublemakers she used to chase away in Kynesgrove. But then, she had the others in the village to easily outnumber any wayward lout looking for a fight. Here, she was outnumbered and on her own. 

She stood a little taller. “You’re in the way.” Svana tried to move past, but one of them shoved her back.

“What’s your rush?” One of them leered at her, anger bubbling in her gut as she watched his eyes trail upwards along her body, “Got somewhere to be?”

“I do.” Again, she tried to move around them, but the other two blocked her way. The temptation to swing her axe was great. Svana stood a little taller, feigning the confidence she so wished she had. 

“Come on, we’re not bad folk, we’re just enforcing the toll,” another said.

Her grip tightened on her blade. “I’m poor.” 

He noticed, and motioned to it. “What’s that you got there, huh? D’ya even know how to swing that thing?” 

They began to close in on her, cutting off any means of escape. Svana retreated, but she wasn’t about to let them get the best of her, not some half-drunk thieves. The sooner she got to Whiterun, the sooner she could go home.

“Hate to ruin that pretty face of yours,” the leering one said, “So you just pay the toll, say, a hundred gold pieces, and we’ll let you go with most of you intact. How’s about it?”

Her mind raced. A hundred gold pieces was more money than she could imagine at once. She shook her head, desperately trying to quell the rising flow of panic. 

“I said, I’m _poor._ ”

One more word, and she’d swing.

Hands appeared on her shoulders. Svana’s body locked up in fear.

_‘Run. Come on, just run—’_

Warm breath exhaled on her cheek. The acrid stench of ale and piss filled her senses. 

_‘What are you doing? Just run. Run!’_

But no matter how much she tried to force herself to flee, her legs stayed bolted to the ground. The brigand leaned in close, brushing her hair out of her face, “Other ways of paying us, girlie.”

That’s it.

No more. She was tired of being dragged around, tired of being made weak. The gods didn’t let her live through a dragon attack for her life to end like this.

Grabbing her axe, she squeezed her eyes shut, and swung. 

The blade struck true. Bone and sinew crunched and gave. The scent of copper hung heavy in the air. 

The brigand stumbled back, dark ichor spurting from a jagged gash on his side. “That’s it,” he snarled, “That’s it! Kill her! This bitch isn’t worth our time, just kill her—”

On cue, they leapt at her like starved wolves. Svana swung again, forcing them back. She waved her still lit torch at another trying to grab her from behind. 

They readied their swords and clubs. Svana swung again, scoring one in the leg. She barely felt the slash that connected with her arm through the chaos and darkening skies.

Clumsily, she staggered away from the oncoming attacks. Dodging where she could, swinging when she can. But her moves were awkward, desperate. Frightened. They surely sensed it, closing in again. 

A pommel raised and came down on her skull. Stars burst behind her eyes and Svana was sent back onto the ground. Looming above her, a bandit raised his weapon. 

Then, fell backwards as an arrow pierced his throat.

The others screamed and flew back, eyes wild. Svana, equally wide-eyed and fearful, immediately scrambled away, grabbing at the dirt and grass to pull herself up and away from the brigands. That’s when she saw them. Her saviors.

Three warriors stood side by side. In front a woman with warpaint and a nocked arrow stood. The other two, a man with an impressively large greatsword, and a smaller woman with a blade that gleamed in the moonlight.

If she weren’t so ready to soil herself in fear, Svana would have kissed their boots in gratitude. The man gestured for her to stand behind him, and as quick as lightning, she did.

“Who in Shor’s Bones are you?” one of the brigands spat.

The man snarled, like a wolf closing in on its prey. 

“We are the Companions—” he practically growled, “—and you just picked the wrong fight.”

The smell of a sweet and spicy brew lured Onmund into Brelyna’s room. The door was ajar, an invitation to friends and colleagues alike. 

Nestled in the corner under the window, Brelyna and J’zargo were curled up on a mountain of pillows. A stack of books lay in the center, as well as a tray of cups, bread, jam and a porcelain teapot filled with tea steeping from a red root.

The shuffling of his boots snapped the two out of their reading, and they greeted him with eager, yet cautious, grins.

“So, how’d it go?” Brelyna asked, slipping a tasseled bookmark where she left off and shut her book, “What did Alrek want?”

“Yes, this one is most curious,” J’zargo said, licking jam off his fingers with a pop, “But truly, you should have stayed here. Brelyna makes a most delicious canis root tea.”

They made room for him in their little pile of books and tea and pillows. Onmund happily plopped himself down, the red on his cheeks still bright as ever, the smile on his face still a mile wide. The wisp still hadn’t left his shoulder.

“We, uh,” he started, bashfully. The temptation to place his cool palms against his burning cheeks was great. “We watched the aurora together.”

“Did you?” Brelyna suddenly sat up, excitement bright in her crimson eyes, “We saw them from the window here! Aren’t they gorgeous?”

“Yes, in Senchal, we have glowing tides at night, but never a glowing sky. Truly, this land holds wonderful surprises.” Then, a clever look graced J’zargo’s features, “But surely the poncy little thing didn’t _just_ ask you to watch the sky with him?”

Onmund laughed, flustered as ever by his friends’ questioning. “He…actually admitted that he didn’t think I’d come, so when I showed up he had no idea. Then the lights came on and…we just sat and watched them together.”

Brelyna and J’zargo’s faces begged him to continue.

“It was nice.” Onmund pulled his hood over his head, hiding himself before he burst into song or something just as embarrassing, “It was just nice listening to him talk and just… sitting there with him.”

“I’m surprised Alrek didn’t have a plan, he usually loves pointing that out about himself,” Brelyna sighed, “So what did he say?”

Onmund almost giggled like a shy maiden. After all, he still had some Nordic pride clinging on. “He said I just had an effect on him.”

J’zargo was the first to let out the amused tittering. “Truly? He said that?”

“Oh, Onmund, I think you’ve finally found a way to get Alrek Allard to finally shut up!”

But their laughter came to a sobering chain of smiles and lifted spirits. Brelyna poured him a cup of tea, and J’zargo spread jam on a slice of bread and passed it to him.

He shouldn’t have been surprised by the act, yet he was. Kindness. Genuine kindness and care. Onmund had always known love from his family, but it had always been conditional. Days or weeks when he held his tongue, his family would warm up to him, but then his father would complain about a rumor that necromancers had taken to a nearby cave, or how a travelling band of mages were cheating people out of their money.

_“Bad people do bad things, what difference does it make if they’re mages?”_

With Brelyna and J’zargo, it was different. They were all mages. They had seen his powers. And here they were, treating him with the kindness and care he should have seen from his blood-kin, yet they were the reason he was here.

Onmund accepted their offerings. “It’s just… nice.”

“What, the lights?” Brelyna asked after a sip of her tea.

“No, just…I was half expecting him to pull a mean prank or make fun of me or something.”

“Hasn’t that one been nothing but flattering towards you?” J’zargo asked, “Surely, even if it were a ruse, it’d be a pretty lousy one to pull.”

“Why… would you expect him to do something like that? I know Alrek’s irritating, but I’ve never known him to be mean,” Brelyna asked. 

Onmund struggled to find the words in Common. He began, slowly, “It wouldn’t be the first time it’s happened. I almost expected to walk into a trap like that.”

“Oh no…” Sympathy laced Brelyna’s voice. She reached out a hand, patting his shoulders.

He stayed quiet for a time.

“Surely you do not think of yourself so lowly?” J’zargo asked, cautiously. 

“It’s nothing you two did,” came the admission, “It’s just… it’s happened before.”

“Really?” they asked in unison.

Onmund nodded, “I had eyes on a girl in my village, Tsuna. She was…” How would he even begin to describe her? It had been years, and in the company of his friends, of good food and drink and the hope of finally being accepted, it felt like it had been time to reopen his past wounds and examine them once more.

Even the wisp on his shoulders buzzed gently, a soothing sensation along the skin of his neck.

“Tsuna was pretty, but the kind of pretty you wouldn’t believe until you see it. She had hair like gold. And she had these blue eyes and freckles- but she was also really nice, everyone liked her, always had something good to say about her.”

His two friends huddled closer together, intrigued.

“One day, my mother, and her mother got talking at the temple, and she was there. I dunno if it was a trick of the mind but she started- I think she started flirting with me.”

“Then what?” Brelyna prodded through a mouthful of jam and bread.

“I wrote her a letter saying how much I liked her and how I wanted to see her again. Eventually, we started meeting in secret. You know, dumb stuff- in my family’s stable, at the outskirts of the village, I think we both knew that if anyone else found out…especially with me being a mage…”

Brelyna and J’zargo shared a concerned look.

“One day I get a letter from her saying that she wants to meet outside of the village, she-” his breath caught in his lungs, “she wanted to do...more with me.”

His shoulders slumped, “She leaves all these little clues for me, you know, like those treasure-hunting games kids play? Finally I get to the lake and she tells me to… well, t-take my clothes off and wait for her.”

That raised eyebrows.

“A-Anyway, I get in the water, and I wait, and then I notice my clothes are gone.”

“Oh no…” Brelyna gasped, eyes widening in horror, a hand clasped over her mouth.

“So I start looking, thinking a critter took it. Then I hear laughing and I run for it. I gave chase- turns out, her brothers did it. They set the whole thing up, they even made her write the letters to trick me. I was afraid. They were hunters and a lot tougher than I was, so I begged for them to just give me my clothes back.”

“Did they?” J’zargo asked.

Onmund could only shake his head. “They’d been out hunting, so they made camp and had a fire. They threw my clothes into the flames and that was that. Said that if I was stupid enough to fall for a dumb thing like this then maybe I deserve to die out here in the woods alone.”

_“What?!”_ J’zargo and Brelyna looked simultaneously offended and enraged. J’zargo snarled his words, “How could they?”

“If this one were there, this one would have plucked their eyeballs for a snack!” He bared his fangs, claws half-sheathed. 

Brelyna, to her credit, was far calmer, though her distress was clear. “Why would they do something like that?”

Onmund shook his head sadly. “They said no mage is welcome near their sister, their family, or even their village.”

Brelyna and J’zargo sat in horrified silence. “W-What did you do after?”

Onmund tried to stifle the sob clawing at his throat, failing. “I didn’t do anything. I just sat there in the clearing, crying, like-” 

He exhaled, shakily. “When it got dark, I was just waiting for the wolves or whatever to just eat me and be done with it. But my sisters found me, brought me a change of clothes and took me home. Since then, my mother never felt safe taking me out alone, she always had one of my sisters or herself accompany me.”

He wiped his tears with his arm in an awkward swipe. “There was no telling who else was going to hurt me or humiliate me. I shamed my family.”

Onmund covered his face, hiding his tears. “I’m sorry,” he managed through sniffles, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to say all that—”

“It’s alright,” Brelyna hushed him, wrapping her arms around his shoulder.

“Yes, there is no shame in your history, friend,” J’zargo joined in.

A moment passed in silence. Eventually, Brelyna spoke up.

“—You know, J’zargo’s right,” Brelyna said, her voice gentle and kind, “You’re not the only one with history like that.”

“R-Really?” Onmund braved a peek from behind his fingers.

She nodded. “I was once laughed out of a Telvanni meeting. My parents didn’t speak to me for weeks. And I overheard my mother even suggest to an aunt that she wished she sent me away when I was younger so she wouldn’t have to deal with all the ‘embarrassment’ I threw at her, day in and day out.”

“W-What happened?” Another sniffle.

Brelyna swallowed a lump in her tightening throat, “My cousin stole a spell I had been working on. Not only did he improve it, but he made me perform it in front of everyone.”

“Of course, it failed miserably, and my mother had to drag me out of the hall before the other magisters could figure out what to do with me. It… It made me want to leave forever. When I overheard her, I stepped out and told her if she wanted to get rid of me so badly, she could start now. My father barely stopped her from slapping me black and blue— 

She folded her hands in her lap, gaze cast down. “I was sent here a week later, no more questions asked.”

Onmund wiped his tears and put an arm around Brelyna, bringing her in close. “I’m sorry.”

But before she could get another word out, J’zargo sighed, unusually heavy. “This one… did not leave on such grand terms either.”

Brelyna and Onmund looked incredulously at their Khajiit companion. “R-Really? I thought you said your family was proud when you left?” Onmund asked.

“ _Only_ this one’s family.” J’zargo’s shoulders slumped and his eyes were downcast, “This one’s parents were very proud. But this one was the only surviving kitten in this one’s litter. This one’s mother always wanted a large family, but instead, she had just… well, _this_ one.” There was no denying the hurt in the emphasis of the last word.

“I didn’t know…” Brelyna said, eyes tearing up from her own recollection, burrowed in Onmund’s soft shoulders.

“This one was doted on terribly by his parents. A master of the mercantile trade, this one knew mathematics, how to find the best deals… but this one’s entire village had said this one would make a better merchant prince than a mage.” Venom laced his tone at the end. It hurt him more than he would say. 

“When this one spoke of this one’s ambitions during a feast, the whole village laughed at him. This one’s parents were the only ones who did not laugh. They helped this one pack things needed for the trip, gave this one money for travel, and even received special permission for this one to cross the borders safely. The whole village called them stupid and foolish for sending their only son away, but they were the only ones who believed in this one.”

“They watched this one leave. Their only cub, gone to pursue his own selfish dreams. _This one will not disappoint._ ”

J’zargo flattened his ears, blinking back tears of his own. “That is why this one wants to try so hard at becoming the best mage, to show everyone that this one can make something of oneself.”

Onmund said nothing, only extending an arm around J’zargo and pulling him in close too.

He threw his head back and laughed, sudden and humorless. “By the Nine, we’re all… we’re all just mistakes, aren’t we?”

Brelyna let out a watery laugh. “Well now that you’ve put it that way… I guess we are.”

“This one proposes a pact,” J’zargo extended his hands out to his friends, always the first to collect himself, “That we stay together during our stay in the College. That nothing shall tear us apart. Pact?”

Brelyna took his hands with her shaky one, “Pact.”

Onmund looked between his friends, and smiling his own sad, but determined smile. He took J’zargo’s hands and gave it a firm shake, “Pact.”

The Winterhold Three had finally come to be.

The brigands ran.

The warriors bested them easily with masterful control of their weapons. The women were graceful, light on their feet, terrifying in their speed, while the man was strong and sure.

Svana could only watch in awe at the sight before her. They had been careful to lead the fight away from her, kept her sheltered by the safety of the roadside and flowers. It wasn’t until the last of them ran off, tails between their legs, as they helped their bloodied friend up and away.

The warriors watched as they made it past the bridge and into the mountains. Once they were sure they would be scared off the roads they turned back. The man jogged up to Svana, his dark hair bobbing along with his muscles.

“Miss!” he called, kneeling before her, “Miss.”

Svana blinked up at him, barely registering that he had been talking at all.

His voice had been soft, and gentle, a complete opposite to the terrifying form he possessed, “Are you alright, miss? It looks like they got you,” he pointed to the gash on her shoulder.

Gods, Svana thought, a whole dragon attack had left her in better shape than a run in with lousy brigands.

“I-I’ll be alright,” the pain flared up in her arm, but she held it down with a wince.

“Can you get up?” He offered a hand, Svana took it.

“I can, but…” another wince and she was pulled back up, shaking her head, “I think I’ll be okay.”

Oh. Huh. 

She noticed the handsome face then. The scruffy, chiseled jaw and the bright, silver eyes. From where she stood at that initial encounter, he just looked like a mountain of hair and muscle.

But up close? He was passably handsome.

“That looks a lot worse than it really is,” he assessed, “Bet we can patch that up and you’ll be good as new.”

It was then Svana recalled their introduction, “Are… are you really the Companions of Jorrvaskr? _The_ Companions?”

But before the man could reply to her, the huntress with the war paint answered, “That we are, and you shouldn’t be alone out here.” She cinched her hands on her hips. “It’s late, what’s your reason?”

“I-I was sent to deliver a message,” Svana flustered, too aware of the muscle that was roped along the huntress’s silken arms, “I had to, time was wasting.”

The three Companions shared a look between each other, before the huntress gave an affirmative nod and walked away. The other woman followed. And the man, reluctantly, did as well.

But she wasn’t about to be left behind. “Wait! Wait” She called, and they stopped.

“Wait,” Svana jogged up to them, “Are you going to Whiterun? It’s really important that I see the Jarl.”

“What business would _you_ even have with the Jarl?” Svana took note of the way the huntress gave a dismissive up-and-down glance at her form, “We were paid to deal with the brigands, not escort some lost milkmaid to the city proper.”

It didn’t escape her notice how the other two flashed shocked expressions at the huntress.

Quite frankly, Svana was surprised. Had they just intended for her to find her way in the dark? After getting attacked? The blood alone would attract a pack of wolves, no matter how close she stuck to the roads. 

“Aw, c’mon Aela,” the man tried, “We’re heading to Whiterun anyway, not like we haven’t had hangers-on before.” He turned to face Svana, wearing a polite enough smile, “Though she does have a point. Strange for anyone to be out here.”

“I have to give the Jarl an important message,” Svana stepped towards them, hand now clasped over her wound. The man was right, looked worse than it felt, but she had to do something about it soon.

“Oh?” The huntress, Aela, cocked a brow.

Svana gritted her teeth, too aware of how… incredulous the whole thing had been. “A dragon attacked Hel—”

The three warriors suddenly burst out laughing.

Svana furrowed her brows in frustration. “It’s true!”

“A _dragon?_ Really?” Aela closed the distance between them, suddenly serious once more. “You expect me to believe a giant lizard from a children’s story came to life?”

Had they not been warriors of Nordic legend, Svana would have shoved her boot in Aela’s pretty little face. But she knew a good Nordic chest-puffing when she saw it, and gave as good as she got.

“I saw what I saw.” She pointed at the huntress, “I don’t need to convince you, I need to convince the Jarl.”

But the man stepped in between them, “We could at least get her some place to rest.”

Svana waved them all off. “Look, it doesn’t matter, I’m hurt and I just want to find a way to Whiterun.”

The huntress, Aela, threw her hands up in frustration, before turning on her heel and leaving. “Ria, come on. Ice-brain over here can deal with this.”

That rankled some of Svana’s feathers, but the man put a hand to her good shoulder to stop her. “Don’t mind Aela, she’s just grumpy she’s on brigand duty.”

Svana smiled at that, “Oh yeah?”

He shrugged. “That’s usually stuff we throw to the whelps.”

“Well, thank you.”

“I’m Farkas, by the way.” He extended a hand for her to shake.

“I’m Svana.” She took his hands in hers and gave it a good shake. She felt the calluses of his hands, well-worn like a warrior’s ought to. Rough and strong.

He gave a lopsided grin. “You got a pretty good swingin’ arm.”

Svana furiously fought the heat in her cheeks. “Yeah?”

“Yeah, a little clumsy. You’re no warrior.”

She shook her head. “No kidding? I was the blacksmith’s apprentice before I got caught up in this mess.”

They chatted idly, a means to fill the silence as they moved through the dying light of day. It wasn’t long before they arrived at the gates of Whiterun. Svana barely believed the stories of the ‘gold fields that went on forever’, yet even in the dimming light, the moons dazzled the plains with their hues of golds and browns. Water as blue and clear as the skies above sparkled in the night light, and the gentle fluttering of luna moths danced along the winds like wisps of magic. It was like something out of a painting, something she never thought she’d see. 

The outer walls were just as impressive. Old. Historical. But maintained with the kind of love and care Svana would expect from an honorable Jarl. There were no marks of war, no scars to proudly show its ugly, bloodshed past. To Svana, it screamed safety and peace everlasting.

Strange then, that the Companions made this their home.

Aela and the other warrior, Ria, let themselves in, with the guards offering humbled bows of their heads. Their looks quickly changed when Svana walked up with Farkas.

One of the guards stepped forth, hands stretched outwards, “Hold, Companion, who’s this— Mara’s tears, another one?”

“Injured from the brigands,” Farkas confirmed, “We took care of ‘em.”

“Glad to hear it, but the Jarl’s issued an emergency order.” The guard folded his arms across his chest, “No strangers allowed in. Only the Companions are allowed in and out.”

“What for?”

The guard’s grim tone wasn’t reassuring in the slightest. “Helgen’s been attacked. Jarl doesn’t want to take any chances with newcomers.”

Farkas looked to Svana, eyes wide in realization. Clearly, only then had he connected the two events. Little wonder why Aela called him ‘ice brain’ then, Svana thought to herself.

Svana ignored his look and stepped forward, declaring, “I came from Helgen.”

His helmet obscured his face, but she was sure his eyes widened in surprise. “You did? Shor’s blood, what happened?” Even the other guard stared curiously in their direction.

“A dragon attacked it, razed it to the ground.”

“A dragon?” Disbelief was prevalent in his voice, and part of her prepared to be dismissed again. 

She sighed. If she knew it would be this difficult to convince the others, she would have never have taken Alvor’s fool errand. “Look, I need to speak to the Jarl.”

“Besides,” Farkas interjected, “She needs healing.” He pointed at the cut on her shoulder, jagged and raw. 

The guard sighed and motioned for the gates to be opened. Alright, alright, go on in. You’re lucky you have the word of a Companion to back you up, girl.”

As they entered through the grand city gates of Whiterun, Svana couldn’t help but sigh in wonder at the sight before her.


	12. A Father's Sins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [ Previously ] After a night watching the lights in the observatory with Alrek, Onmund soon finds he has so much more in common with his new friends. But his dreams will soon bring dark omens, as he soon learns. Svana, meanwhile, finds herself in the gold plains of Whiterun, and in the company of the Companions. Will she be able to deliver her message in time?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone! Thank you so much for your patience! I hope everyone's had a safe New Years! Moth and I have been hard at work on the upcoming chapters, hope you'll stick around for 'em! :D

Whiterun had been quaint. Svana could see from the pretty houses and even prettier townsfolk that none of them had ever known a day of hardship. The streets were cobbled neatly with new stone, not dirt paths made from the stubborn footsteps of ancestors past. The houses were new and made of brick and wood, not barely held together with hope and old wood.

The Bannered Mare had been a fine enough place to stay. But Farkas’s word had sent the owner into a fuss. She insisted she took the best room they had. It was nicer than anything Svana had ever slept in. A large bed dominated the room in the center, a washtub placed to the side behind a woven divider, and a charming balcony to privately enjoy food, drink and music. 

Svana still hardly believed the circumstances that led her here, but she complained little when Farkas rubbed some healing salve on her shoulders, drew a bath for her, and explained the best times to visit the Jarl.

_‘It could have been worse,’_ Svana thought, _‘He could have been ugly’._

She snickered to herself, easing herself into the hot water and letting her aching joints melt into the heat. She wished Ma and Pa could see her, talking with the Companions. Wished she could brag to Elsie how big of a bed she got. Wished she could tease Onmund about-

She sat up, water sloshing out of the wooden tub. 

_Gods._

All of this was because of Onmund, wasn’t it? She wondered where he could have gone off to. Was he safe? She hoped wherever he ended up, he was safe. Alive, at least. The anger that fueled her journey onwards had long since died after the dragon showed up.

Now, she could only hope he was in one piece. She’d seen enough death for one life, prayed enough that she would find a brother and not a body. That he was off being a fool with magic with other troublemakers. 

Let him raise Oblivion all he wants, if it means he yet lives. 

She poured more of the oils into her palm and worked it into her skin. They smelled exactly like the ones her mother saved for special occasions, for dinners and family visits. 

She remembered how, on the morning of those occasions, her mother would spend all day mixing them. Small luxuries that they allowed themselves to enjoy.

They’d spend the week preparing for Oma to stay for a winter’s visit. She’d bring smoked venison and bushels of berries, and they’d gather around the fireplace to laugh all night long. And when dinner was had and the smiles had died down, everyone sat with bottles of mead in hand and—

Moisture dripped down into the cloudy water below. Her reflection said it all. 

Gods, she was crying. 

She wiped her tears away, cursing aloud when the oils stung her eyes. She rubbed futilely at them.

After she stumbled out of the bath, she washed her face with cold water from the basin. It helped little in chasing away the memories- of laughter shared between her siblings, the warmth of a roaring hearth… 

Her family. When she still had one. 

When they returned, she decided, those bittersweet memories of lounging together in peace, she’d chase them away with mead and ale and whatever the innkeep would allow her. 

When that failed, she wrapped herself up as tightly as she could with the soft blankets, rocking herself to sleep. She always, always complained when Elsie brought her thrice-damned pet hen into bed, and how Onmund snored the loudest between the three of them.

And yet she wished with all her heart that they were there. Snoring and pecking at her.

She just had to warn the Jarl, then she could continue her search. She just had to make it through the night.

“Gods, Onmund,” she whimpered, alone, “Why did you run?”

She buried her face into the coverings, sobbing.

“I’m so, so sorry…”

When dawn returned over Tamriel, Kynesgrove found itself covered in a blanket of mist and fog. Not unusual for the time of year, but more than what Elsie was comfortable with. She peered out through the basement window, climbing on Onmund’s now empty bed as she watched swirls of fog dance in the morning light.

“Come on, darling,” her Ma called out, “If we’re late, we won't have bread for the night.”

Elsie sighed. Market day. It was going to happen eventually, she knew, yet it was so different without Onmund and Svana around. Those two could carry all the heavy loads with no complaint. It always made the trip home so much easier.

But they weren’t here, were they? Chased off by-

-No. She stopped herself short. It wouldn’t bring them home, anyway.

“Did Pa come home yet?” Elsie asked, hopping off her brother’s bed and fishing for her boots under her own.

Her mother only sighed as she tightened the fastenings around her own pair of worn shoes. “He did. Then left again this morning.”

Elsie looked up to her mother. She didn’t need further explanation, when the unsaid words hung heavy in the air. He had gone to look for her siblings.

It was so much easier to think that Svana and Onmund had met their early ends, that the harsh landscapes or the cruelty of war was responsible for their demise. But then a hold guard happened to see Onmund go northward. Not enough to know where exactly he had gone off, but the trail was picked up once more.

It was all the family needed to offer their prayers again, before Talos’s feet.

So their father continued his search, desperate to right his wrongs. After working long hours with the others, he would come home for supper. And before he even had time to wash himself up, he’d be out the door with a lantern in hand. Sometimes he’d make the dangerous walks along the river by himself, other times hitching rides with carriage drivers who pitied him enough to take what little coin he could offer.

For Svana, he tried sending letters to Darkwater Crossing, but no messenger from Eastmarch would dare set foot near the Thalmor’s activities. Even if they had cleared out, seeking their prey elsewhere, there was no telling what clever trap they left behind.

Yet still, her father searched.

“You think Onmund and Svana are gonna come back?” Elsie asked, her voice quiet.

Her mother could only put on a brave face. After a while, she spoke.

“I don’t know.”

“Do you think they’re still out there?”

Her mother pursed her lips tight, “I know your father does.”

It didn’t escape Elsie’s notice, the way she had said that. _‘I know your father does.’_ An admission of her own hopelessness? Or trying to convince herself of the truth? Did it even matter? They were both gone, and it was still market day. 

Elsie nodded, “Maybe we’ll hear some good news soon, it’s only been a few days.”

Her mother could only shrug. “I hope so.” 

Yet they both knew better. When war loomed over the horizon, when every day brought some new horrifying gossip to the village, a few days was all one needed to find death.

Or, Elsie thought morosely, for death to find them. 

She pulled on her boots and began lacing them up. She pulled on a large, heavy shawl and before they could leave the house, they heard their father shouting, “Ulla! Elsie! Come quick!”

They climbed up the stairs. Her mother hurried out the door first. Elsie saw her father down the street, leading the nag that Svana had taken the night she looked for Onmund… and riding her was none other than their Oma.

“Ma!” Her own mother rushed over, helping the old woman off the horse as they led the old nag back in the safety of the stables.

“Don’t fuss over me, Ulla, I can take care of myself,” she grouched, her expression quickly softening as she saw Elsie’s face, “There you are my darling little hen, how have you been?”

Elsie allowed her Oma’s callused hands to stroke her round cheeks, “I’ve been good, Oma.”

“Ma, what are you even doing here?” Her mother couldn’t help but fuss, “This is so dangerous, word on the street-”

“Yes, I’ve heard. Saw it myself, in fact.”

“Maybe we should get inside,” her father urged, “Never know who’s out here.”

The four of them hurried back into the house, Elsie helping her Oma into her mother’s rocking chair. Her mother quickly put together homemade jam and bread, pulling a kettle of stewing tea back over the fire. Her father took his seat, looking more tired than Elsie remembered him ever being.

Gods, this was one of those days where she wished this was just some long, drawn out nightmare.

“What’s going on?” Her mother asked as she served the tray full of food and drinks, “Why did you come here?”

Her oma waved her hand dismissively, “Oh don’t worry about me, I’m more worried about you three.”

“Ma…”

Elsie sat crossed-legged on the floor, maybe if she didn’t look at the other adults talking, she wouldn’t have to hear what they had to say. It couldn’t be anything good, now that Oma’s here.

“I’m surprised you’d make the trip out here Runa,” her father began, “I thought with the news of the Thalmor-”

“Those elves are nothing but trouble, and I don’t let a bunch of troublemaking layabouts do as they please,” her Oma snapped, “Besides, after what happened, I had to come here, make sure you’re alright.”

“We heard the Thalmor had come and taken some people,” her mother said as she poured the tea.

“Aye, they did,” her Oma sighed, “I couldn’t stay there, not after what I heard.”

All three pairs of eyes were on her, “I don’t know how to tell you all this, but better me than some Imperial scout with a stick up his ass.”

Elsie watched her Oma settle into her seat, graciously taking the cup of tea from her mother, a quiet recollection of the once graceful woman she had been in her youth. 

After a long while, she spoke. “The Thalmor came and drummed up some trouble. They caught Ulfric Stormcloak.”

Everyone gasped, but her Oma didn’t respond to it. Elsie couldn’t read her expression, too stoic, too controlled for her liking. 

“Svana was caught up in the trouble. I thought I could try following them for a while, but...” Oma’s gaze trailed off, just as her words did.

Father nearly leapt up from his chair. “Is Svana alright!?”

But her Oma wore a dark look.

“What’s wrong?” Elsie curled her knees up to her chin, bracing herself for the inevitable news. What else could it be? What other reason, other than bad news, would bring her Oma all the way here?

“Last I heard, they were being taken to Helgen.”

Looks were exchanged, and from the glint of the morning light streaming in through frosted windows, Elsie could have sworn there were tears welling up in her mother’s eyes.

“I swear on all Nine of the Divines,” her Oma began, “I didn’t believe it when I heard it, even less when I saw it.” She took in a steadying breath, and her own aged eyes began to tremble with the threat of oncoming tears, “A dragon razed Helgen to the ground.”

Her Oma’s hands gripped the armrest of the chair tight, her knuckles white as frost, hands shaking.

She let out a watery sigh. “Nothing’s left. No bodies, no survivors, soldiers warned me away before I could get any closer.” 

The little family sat in stunned silence.

Oma never stopped believing, “But I know Svana’s out there, I know she’s-”

She didn’t have to say the rest of it. Elsie knew better than to believe whatever she would say next. She knew what the look her Oma gave her meant, desperately trying to convince her that her sister was alive and well, despite the odds.

“We just have to keep searching for her, we can’t give up on Svana.”

Elsie couldn’t hear anymore. The tears poured out, too fast, too much. _‘Lies! Lies! Lies! Why do adults love to lie?’_

She sucked in a shaky breath, recognizing none of the words being exchanged between her family. She barely heard her parents call her when she ran out the door. She needed to get out, needed to leave. 

Maybe if she ran away far enough along the river, she wouldn’t have to hear more bad news. Didn’t have to hang her hopes on some empty promise.

Maybe if she ran far enough away, the news Oma brought would be just a nightmare and she’d wake up to another lonely day at home.

_In a vast field of gold, Onmund heard his family call for him. Over and over, the sound repeated endlessly. Not like the night he left for Winterhold, though. The words were monotonous, lifeless. Droning on and on, like a ritual of some sort._

_As he walked through the tall grass, he could see his family house sitting in the middle of the plains. He looked around: the sky was a dreadful grey, with terrifying storm clouds swirling above. The gentle rumble of thunder sounded in the distance, a warning of what was yet to come. He turned to see the plains stretch as far as the eye could see. Yet no mountains graced the horizon, no sound of running water, not even a path in sight._

_He approached the house, cautious as ever. Despite hearing the calls coming from inside, the closer he got to the door, the more distant their voices became, until they all but disappeared when he finally crossed the threshold._

_The house had been left as it was that night. Dinner was still on the table- a small roast of ham gifted by one of his father’s friends. The baked potatoes were still wrapped in the basket, steam wafting off their browned skins. The hearth was still lit, the scent of his mother’s herbal teas wafting in the air._

_“Hello?” he called, but no answer. He turned to the sitting area, spotting his mother’s tins of paints sitting where she had left them, the vase she had been decorating unfinished._

_“Ma?” He called again, but no answer. When he peered out the window, all he saw was darkness._

_Where could everyone be? Asleep, maybe?_

_He walked into the basement, past the small corner used for food storage, over to the bed and bathing areas. A tub of hot water had been drawn- no doubt for his father in anticipation after a long day at work. Svana’s scrubbing salts for getting the soot and filth from her hands sat where she left it over the basin._

_He peered to where his siblings would have been sleeping. But the bed his sisters shared was empty and unmade. Onmund tracked back, peeking behind the woven divider where his parents slept. “Ma? Pa? You there?”_

_But the large bed they shared was empty too. Even his mother’s slippers were still where she had left them._

_He returned upstairs and walked out the door. The little house was devoid of life. There was nothing left for him._

_“Hello!” He called, but all that returned was an echo, “Svana! Elsie!”_

_He tried again. “Gods, Frigga? Is anyone out there?”_

_Silence._

_Before he could turn around and continue his search behind the house, the thunder made good on its threat. A deafening clap made his hands shoot up to his ears to cover them and the bright flash of lightning made him squeeze his eyes shut._

_His vision blurred and his ears rang, but there was no mistaking the sight he would see when he looked over his shoulder._

_The house, so lifeless and empty moments before, was consumed in fire. Onmund stumbled back, tripping and stumbling as fast as his legs could carry him. The door he left ajar had shut on its own. He tried to reach for the door, but the handle had long become shapeless molten slag. Oh gods, what would he do? He searched for the barrel of water by the back of the house. Gone, vanished._

_The splintering crack of breaking wood sounded. The roof of his tiny home had collapsed in on itself._

_Shor’s blood._

_He peeked into the windows, and screamed._

_His mother, father and sisters stood inside, as still as statues, posed as though they were to be painted. His father stood behind his mother, seated, hands folded neatly in her lap. Svana stood beside their father. Elsie sat beside their mother._

_“No! Get out!” He screamed. He tried to break the windows, but they would not shatter. He tried to burst the doors open, but to no avail. He could only watch as his family burned before his very eyes._

_“Help! Someone help!” He screamed, voice hoarse from desperation. The window caught his eye once more and horror overcame him and turned his gut as he watched Elsie watch her hand burn away. From a fair, plump thing to a charred husk._

_“You mustn’t weep for them,” a voice behind him sounded._

_He turned to find Alrek, just as he had seen him the very first time, bathed in fire. Completely in tune with his element._

_“You’re in a better place now,” his whispered, voice haunting and hollow. He reached to cup Onmund’s face, but the flames that Alrek summoned burned him just the same._

_The pain seared through his body. His screams deafened even himself as he kept his eyes locked on Alrek, face devoid of emotion._

_And yet, through the madness of it all, he heard the loud roar of a terrifying creature in the distance, and the feeling of lips grazing against his own._

Onmund woke with a start. He gasped, clutching tightly to the blanket, cold sweat beading along his brow. _‘Just a dream, just a dream,’_ he soothed to himself. One breath, then another, then another. 

His sleep was still a fitful affair. The nights where he suffered terrors began to outnumber the restful ones.. Gods, what did it all mean? What did it mean when he watched his family burn away? What… What did it mean when he saw Alrek…?

No, it was a dream. Just nonsense. Emotions trying to make sense of themselves. He had changed his life so drastically in just a few days, the son of a farmer one day, potential mage the next- 

Prophecies didn’t choose farmboys on the run from home. They were reserved for chiseled heroes and charming royals.

He shoved the blankets off himself and stumbled out of bed. He just needed some time to adjust. It had only been a week or so, at this point. He just needed some time. That was what Brelyna told him over dinner one night, that time and distance would do him good. That he just needed to calm down and focus on his studies here.

Onmund made his way over to the basin and began washing his face. It hadn’t been the first nightmare he experienced since coming to Winterhold, but it had been by far the most haunting. 

_‘Did it even mean anything?’_ He asked himself. Was it guilt for leaving his family? Or was it… something else?

Maybe, his father- 

No. They were wrong. They made him leave! It was their fault! If they had just been more accepting, more understanding-

He dragged a towel down his face. The early glow of morning light that filtered through his window gave his room an ethereal blue glow. And there, he saw it, over his bed. The guardian animals, the wooden cow and the jade guar. He nervously chewed on his bottom lip. He was among his people now, people who understood and appreciated and even praised his gifts. Complete strangers taken to showering him with kindness, unprompted. Yet his own family could not extend the same affection.

He was up now. Maybe he could find a snack, or clear his mind? He pulled a warmer pair of trousers on, and shrugged on his college robes, hastily tying them together before he made for the hallways.

Curious wisps floated down from the rafters after him, but one in particular had taken to sitting on his shoulder as he walked through the college. “Hey there,” he greeted as the wisp sat, its energy a peculiar tingle against his skin as they walked together.

“Think anyone’s gonna be up this early?” Onmund asked the wisp, “Or are they all asleep?”

If the creature had shoulders, it’d shrug, but it settled for a flickering glow. He saw Brelyna’s and J’zargo’s room still closed, and as he made his way down the living quarters, the distinct noises of snoring apprentices everywhere, dreaming away.

_‘To the dining hall,’_ he supposed, and made the journey up the spiral staircases that seemed to go on forever.

Nothing stirred within the halls. All, except for one lone figure.

“Alrek?” Onmund called out, one brow raised, “Is… is that you?”

His hair was braided loosely down his back. And while the clothes he wore were certainly plainer than the last outfit he’d seen him in, the clean, precise tailoring was all Onmund needed to know it came from wealth. The high collar, the long flowing sleeves, all things he had only seen in romantic paintings of long-ago princes.

“Onmund, hello,” Alrek smiled easily, “Care to join me for a reading?”

“A…reading?”

“Yes, cards! A card reading.” He beckoned for Onmund to join him.

“Hang on,” Onmund said as he took his seat across Alrek. “What are you doing up so early?”

He laughed, but not unkindly, “Our father back home had us rise as early as our knights. Said we’d make awful lor- eh, heads of the house, if all we did was sleep the day away.”

“No offense,” Onmund spoke plainly, “But I always thought rich people had, you know, servants to do things for them, so they can stay in bed longer?”

Alrek shook his head, shuffling a colorful deck of cards in his hands. Though there were less rings on his hands, the few that were on still glimmered brightly even in the dim light. 

“Nonsense,” he dismissed, “not our family anyway. We’re expected to make our beds and help the st- help.”

“Really?”

“If we wanted breakfast, we had to get up as early as our father did- and he’s an early riser. Any later than that, and we’re expected to figure out how to make it ourselves.”

“So, you cook?” There was a clever smirk on Onmund’s face, “What can you make?” He felt a strange kind of amusement when he thought about it; maybe there were things, practical things, he was better at than Alrek.

Alrek smiled, and he melted at the sight, “Oh, I don’t burn my eggs anymore if you can believe it. And I’ve figured how to brew butter-roasted Ragada coffee perfectly now. Tricky thing, that. And we even do the washing up after. Father says if we can’t even figure out how to wash our dishes, how are we expected to take care of anything more important?”

Onmund giggled, “Sounds like our fathers would get along.”

“Maybe. My father doesn’t look like a tough disciplinarian, you know. He’s all smiles and laughter and… he’s very soft. But he holds all of us to a certain standard.”

“Is it common, what your father does? In High Rock, I mean?”

Alrek shrugged, “Depends. It’s not like I’m up cleaning the rafters or dusting the crystals, but he always said that if we’re making a mess the least we can do is respect our help’s time and service.”

“What about your mother?”

He laughed, “She’s the same way. Her family, before she married my father, was influential, but not very rich.”

“How does that work?” Could such a thing even exist? Power and wealth always went hand in hand, at least in Skyrim it did.

“It means that what they say in court, or anywhere, really,” Alrek corrected himself, “Holds more sway than anyone else’s. But they won’t be able to afford fancy new gowns for the next salon or pretty baubles to decorate themselves with.”

“That sounds… wow, I had no idea.” Onmund could barely fathom the notion of having wealth and influence, even just a sliver of it. Even if what Alrek said was true, he was sure anyone in his circle or family would have more coin than his family would ever see in a lifetime.

Gods, he remembered how his father celebrated having a better cut of meat. How his mother wept when her little artworks bought them better, fresher bread for the night. He remembered how proud Svana was when she held up her first gold coin.

And here was Alrek. He wore all of Onmund’s family’s hopes and dreams on his fingers. The nicest thing the family had were small, traditional amulets, and even those looked like cheap baubles compared to the things Alrek wore.

“So, care to read your future? See what destiny has in store for you?”

Onmund stared fixated at the cards before him. They were illustrated in intricate detail. He had never seen art from High Rock before, and these just confirmed how closely the Bretons loved the occult. On one card, the moons beamed down onto a man with a noose around his neck. On another, stars sparkled in gilded ink around a fool who fell to his death. Most frightening of all was the depiction of a Daedra, flanked by a pair of nude lovers in chains.

He swallowed a nervous lump in his throat, “The… the priests in my village said people who looked to the future… they uh, they were toying with the Nine Divines’ plans.” Much as he wanted to keep an open mind, he was still a Nord after all. He worshipped Talos, went to the Temple, and venerated the dead with honor, glory and mead.

Alrek waved him off, “It’s all for a bit of fun, promise, most of it is just nonsense. But who knows?” he winked, “Stranger things have happened in this college.”

“O-okay…” He wasn’t sure, of course, but he had no reason to distrust Alrek so far.

Alrek began to shuffle the cards and placed them face down in a neat stack. He cut the deck into three smaller stacks, and then combined them all once more. He spread them out across the table before Onmund.

“Now, this is a simple reading, so choose your first card.”

“Any card?”

“Feel it,” Alrek instructed, “A card will call out to you, meet it.”

Onmund honestly hadn’t felt anything, but Alrek was certainly the showman. For all but a moment, he believed a card had, indeed, sought him out. Even if all he thought he felt was the gentle buzz of the wisp, still on his shoulder.

He didn’t know what willed him to make the choice he did. Perhaps it was randomness or truly the work of an invisible guiding hand, but he drew his card. 

Alrek put a hand over his, halting him. “Don’t turn it over just yet.” Even if he could have moved, he wouldn’t have dared. Gods, that touch… 

“Pick your second card.”

He ran his thumb over the cards in his hand, feeling the smooth cardstock and the textured ink, choosing a card with the other.

“Now, pick your last card.”

And so, he did.

Alrek then flipped each card over. The first, a delicately drawn hand, holding an overflowing cup, though the card was upside down from his view. The second: A pair of lovers holding hands through a field. And the final one, a man falling to his doom.

“Huh, interesting,” Alrek examined the cards. “Very interesting.”

“What? What does it mean?” To Onmund, the paintings were very pretty, if not a little strange, yet that was the extent of his insight. Would he have been able to discern any meaning from this? Did the illustrations on the card mean anything at all? He’d recognized the words at the bottom of each card as Bretic, but would that have even helped?

“The first card represents your past,” Alrek held the first card up for him to examine, “You chose it in reverse, which means you’ve had to learn a lot of self-love, and deal with many repressed emotions- or it means something held you back.”

Onmund quickly dismissed it as a lucky guess. For all he knew, Alrek was making the whole thing up. He told a gist of his story the first time they shared a meal together. Though he had to admit… it was a meaning that hit close to his heart. He hadn’t spoken to Alrek of how far the abuse went, or how repressed he truly felt.

Perhaps there was something to these cards, after all.

“-Now, the second card represents your present,” Alrek continued, full lips pulled back into a smile, “the Lovers.” He held the card up. “It means that you’ve found love, but not… just the romantic kind, but a love in yourself, and in your surroundings. Suddenly you feel as if you belong to where you truly belong.”

Alright, that one had been obvious.

“Love is about choice,” Alrek added, eyes boring deep into his own, “And you can’t make good choices if you can’t be honest with what you really want.”

Oh. He hadn’t expected that, of all things.

Those words hit him with the force of a punch. Love is about choice, he repeated in his thoughts. That… that had been true. He knew that night he had to leave, that if he didn’t make that choice then and there he’d be stuck in Kynesgrove ‘til the end of his days.

He was brought back when Alrek started again. “Now your third card represents your future- The Fool.”

_‘That can’t be good,’_ Onmund thought.

“The Fool represents innocence, and new beginnings. So, perhaps in your future, you’ll have found your true calling- maybe as a new interest, or perhaps a new rank?” 

He laughed. “Perhaps I’ll be addressing you as Master Onmund of Kynesgrove soon?”

Onmund blushed furiously. More so when Alrek placed the cards down and put his hands over Onmund’s. They were smaller than his, neatly manicured, yet callused. He expected him to have hands as soft as a babe’s, with his lineage and wealth. What had Alrek done to earn them?

“-The cards, like I said, are sometimes nonsense,” he met Onmund’s gaze and held it firmly. “But sometimes they invite us to make the change we need to make, or to help us realize something we’ve been trying so hard to deny.”

Onmund stayed quiet for a moment, enchanted by those eyes and the feeling of his hands over his own.

“Is that why you were here reading the cards?” He let a smile wash over his expression, “Were you trying to figure something out too?”

He saw the way Alrek’s throat bobbed. Saw the way his lips twisted into a sad smile and how his eyes were downcast. Onmund felt the weight of whatever burden Alrek was shouldering transferred onto him when he sighed, “...Yes.”

There was no hiding the sadness in his eyes. And for a brief moment in time, Onmund felt a connection spark to life between them.


	13. Heed the Call

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [ Previously ] After contemplating their destines, Svana and Onmund both find themselves dealing with nightmares (and responsibilities) they're not quite ready to face. And to make matters worse, the siblings are a little homesick. Svana settles down in Whiterun before seeing the Jarl, and Onmund is treated to a card reading by Alrek.
> 
> But the new day's light can bring new hope for them both. Will Onmund understand the cards Alrek drew for him? And will Svana follow through on her task to the Jarl?

Svana wasted no time.

She cringed as she pulled her old dress and cloak over her shoulders. Gods, it had only been days and her clothing had been through so much. It was starting to look and smell the way she felt. Tired, worn and absolutely grimy.

Still, she had more pressing matters at hand. She was hardly dressed to see the Jarl at his court, but perhaps if she looked as ragged as she did, maybe he’d believe her.

Or cast her out and call her touched in the head.

She pushed her way past the busy inn, full of guards stuffing their faces with plates stacked high with food, and merchants loading off produce for the kitchens. The smell of breakfast over the fire tempted her to stay, but she promised Alvor to send word, and she wasn’t about to break that promise.

It had been surprisingly easy to make it past the guards that flanked Drangonreach, the grand longhouse that the Jarl and his family resided in. She wondered then if the Jarl regularly allowed common folk to simply enter and demand his presence. She was ready to fight any means of Imperial-touched bureaucracy to demand his audience.

And yet, all she did was greet the guards and they let her in through the front doors.

The longhouse seemed more like a castle when she walked into its halls. And it was a grand sight, indeed. Svana had never known wealth and power like this. She couldn’t help but crane her neck this way and that as she stepped past the heavy, imposing doors. 

The wooden pillars were carved in traditional Nord motifs of dragons, dancing and playing in the carved rafters like kittens. Large sconces and hanging fixtures illuminated the grand hall, as bright as the morning light outside. 

The long table that commanded the hall was crowded with food. Breads of every type were presented in ornate baskets, still steaming from the oven. Slices of smoked meats and cheeses were arranged on plates, next to fruits and jams. Barrels of mead and pitchers of water sat in impressive silver containers.

Yet all of it remained untouched.

In fact, as Svana scanned the room, save for the two guards outside, the hall was devoid of life. Not even a stray servant was to be seen.

Either this Jarl was the most trusting man of all of Nirn…or she had just walked into something very troubling.

Sure enough, as she walked further down the hall, she heard it. There was no mistaking the frustrated undertones of what sounded like three people bickering. Strange that the guards hadn’t stopped her then, if she was interrupting something.

As she approached the throne, she saw who the voices belonged to. Jarl Balgruuf was like how she envisioned a Jarl to look like: as blonde as the fields of wheat in his hold, and a mighty beard with braids to match. 

Yet his steward was another story. He looked Imperial, or some sort of foreigner. His dark skin stood out in a place like Skyrim, so too the cunning eyes and his short, slight build.

But most impressive was his Housecarl. Or, at least, who she hoped.

A Dunmer woman pulled away from the argument, raising her blade right at Svana, prepared to strike at the slightest provocation. Her ashen skin glowed under the firelight, and the markings on her made her look even more strange and alien. Her armor betrayed slivers of coiled muscle along her limbs, and her scowl was impressively frightening. This was a Housecarl.

“State your business.” It was all she needed to say.

“W-Who are you?” _'Stupid question,'_ Svana thought, a moment too late to stop it.

“I could ask you the same thing.” The Dunmer narrowed her ruby red eyes, menacing in the low light.

Suddenly Svana wondered if this was a fool’s errand all along. She squared her shoulders, and uttered, “I have word from Helgen.”

“You know about Helgen?” The Dunmer sheathed her sword, eyes wide and disbelieving. “No time to waste then. What’s your name? The Jarl would speak to you.”

“I’m Svana, of Kynesgrove.”

At her instruction, Svana followed the Housecarl up the dais and before the throne, where the Jarl and his steward immediately turned their attention on the newcomer.

The steward, the foreigner, was first to speak. “Irileth, what’s the meaning of this, we can’t afford any interru-” 

Irileth cut him off just as suddenly, addressing the Jarl instead. “My Jarl, this girl has information about Helgen.”

Jarl Balgruuf focused his eyes on Svana, who suddenly felt very small.

“Is that true?”

Svana was torn between bowing and answering, but lowered her gaze respectfully all the same, kneeling before the throne. “Y-Yes, I came from there actually, I escaped with two other survivors when the dragon came and- and burned everything.”

She heard him shift in his seat. A long, terrible pause came between all four of them, as though realization had dawned upon everyone at the same time.

If the dragon still soared the skies, there was no telling who would be its next victim. The question burned in everyone’s mind: Would Whiterun become the next Helgen?

Svana feared his answer. She had known men in power to gamble away the lives of nobodies if it meant keeping the people who mattered, alive and safe.

And Riverwood was a village of nobodies.

The Jarl leaned forward, resting his elbow on his knee, gesturing for her to continue. She felt the weight of his gaze on her, saw the intense fear burning in his eyes. Something deep inside her called him a fool for not acting sooner, tugging at her to take matters into her own hands.

You have the power to stop this.

Svana quieted the voice in her mind, and took a breath before she spoke. 

“I was taken prisoner by the Imperial soldiers.”

“Because you allied with Ulfric?” Accusation laced the steward’s question. 

Svana did not cow to his words, biting back a half formed retort. “No, ser. They took me because they found an amulet of Talos around my neck-” some sympathy from the Nord Jarl, perhaps? 

“-it doesn’t matter why they took me, what matters is that I saw the dragon and I saw what it did to Helgen. Nothing is left of that village. And last I saw, it was headed this way. The people of Riverwood are frightened, they don’t have any protection so they asked me to send word to you.”

The Jarl was a clever man. She supposed he had to be, otherwise he wouldn’t be fit to rule a city. “Riverwood, eh? How do you know of the village?”

“When I left Helgen, it was the closest place for me and my friends to rest. It was Alvor who sent me to warn you, soon as I could walk on my own feet.”

Jarl Balgruuf stroked his beard thoughtfully, “Alvor? The smith, isn't he? Reliable, solid fellow. Not prone to flights of fancy…” 

He carefully regarded her, “And you're sure Helgen was destroyed by a dragon? This wasn't some Stormcloak raid gone wrong?"

“I swear on Ysmir’s tomb.”

There was an uncomfortable, heavy pause. The tension hung so thick in the air it was palpable. Svana could almost choke on it.

“Well then, Proventus,” Jarl Balgruuf turned to his steward, “Should we do as you say then? Continue to trust in the strength of our walls? Against a dragon that can _fly_?”

The steward, Proventus, shuffled nervously in place. “My Jarl, it’s not-”

“My Jarl,” Irileth spoke above the steward, who only gave an annoyed shake of his head, but did nothing to stop her. 

Oh, she liked this one. “We should send our men to Riverwood at once, it’s the one closest to the danger if the reports of the dragons are true.”

“The Jarl of Falkreath would see that as provocation,” Proventus stressed, “The city of Whiterun has not chosen a side, this is a political nightmare.”

But Jarl Balgruuf would not sit on his hands.

“I’d rather risk a few hurt feelings than watch my people being slaughtered by that thing.” Anger bubbled under the Jarl’s voice, “I am not some soft lordling, standing idly by. Do I make myself clear?” 

The steward looked away, pursing his lips in frustration. Irileth stood ready, shoulders straight and head held high. 

“Irileth, send a detachment to Riverwood at once,” came the command, “Not the entire retinue, enough to help our people get to safety- do not sacrifice the men needlessly.”

“Yes, my Jarl.” She saluted with a fist to her chest, a traditional Nordic greeting. With a soldier’s precision, she turned on her heels and left down a hallway, to the barracks.

“Well then, since this has all been decided, I will take my leave then, my Jarl,” the steward spoke, dismissing himself. “If we are arming the people for a dragon attack, I will prepare what’s necessary.”

As he too disappeared down the hallways of the grand palace, Svana was suddenly more than aware that she was still kneeling before the throne.

“Don’t mind Proventus, I know he seems the worrier, but I would not be able to run this city without men like him.” The Jarl gestured for her to rise, “Your courage is admirable.”

“The common messengers must be very brave then,” Svana blurted out before she could stop herself.

Thankfully, the Jarl only let out an amused laugh. “Aye, that they are. But you came here of your own volition. Where did you say you were from, lass?”

“I’m from Kynesgrove, in Eastmarch.”

“You’ve come a long way.”

“I… I was looking for my brother,” gods, this must have been the hundredth time she told this story, “He had run away from home, I thought he went to my Oma’s.”

“Either way, you’ve sought me out on your own initiative. That’s commendable enough. Most men would bury themselves in an early grave at the talk of dragons.”

“Thank you, my Jarl.” The title sounded awkward as she addressed him, but he gave no indication of being offended.

“Don’t thank me yet. I suppose you’ll be on your way back home?”

Svana twisted her fingers anxiously. “I don’t… I don’t know the way back. I might just rest here for some time. Get my bearings.”

“I am not a man that lets a good deed go forgotten, is there anything I can help you with?”

A hundred ideas pulled and tugged at Svana in her mind. Ask him for gold, weapons, a carriage back home. He’s a powerful man.

Ask if his spies found Onmund.

She thought for a while before she answered. “I need someone to write a letter home for me.”

Jarl Balgruuf looked surprised, and Svana half-wondered if she should have also asked for gold. No, no, money held no value if she couldn’t see her family one last time. They deserved to know what happened, if rumors of Helgen had begun to spread…

Ysmir’s beard, they probably think I’m dead.

“A fair request,” he summoned a scribe by way of a servant, and before the Jarl, Svana wrote her message to her family:

_Ma, Pa,_

_Don’t know what you heard on the wind. Helgen is gone, but I’m not. I’m in Whiterun. Don’t ask- it’s a long story. I’m going to keep trying to find Onmund. By the time this letter reaches you, hopefully I’ve found out where he’s gone off to._

_Tell Elsie if she’s been good she can let Frigga have my side of the bed._

_Your daughter,  
Svana_

It was always a good day when the late morning sun warmed the ancient stones of the College of Winterhold. And today could only get better.

The Hall of the Elements buzzed with excitement. The rows of seats each had a folded circular, and the chattering only grew when the apprentices read its contents: a trip was to be had and the apprentices were given the opportunity to study ancient relics. 

Brelyna and J’zargo each held their copy in hand, eyes darting over the words again and again.

“A trip!” Brelyna couldn’t stop herself, “So early in our studies?

“Perhaps the masters have uncovered something. Skyrim is full of secrets, is it not?” J’zargo piped up.

Onmund honestly didn’t know what to say. “I mean, I guess the same could be said anywhere, right? I’ve only heard of things like barrows and ruins, but never actually been to one myself.”

J’zargo shrugged. “There is a first time for everything, this one has not delved into the caves of this province, perhaps there is value in such a place.”

“Value?” Brelyna raised a brow. “J’zargo, we talked about this.”

J’zargo sighed. “Very well…”

“Well, whatever this trip is,” Brelyna began, steering the conversation back on track, “Let’s see what Tolfdir has to say, before we get our hopes up too much.”

Onmund could only focus on the words. A trip. He had never seen much of Skyrim outside of home. Even on his journey to Winterhold, he had gone under the cover of the night. And the carriage driver made sure to stick to well-travelled roads, and ones with little to see at that.

Discovering Skyrim’s secrets, the circular read, what could it mean? Growing up in a small village, most rumors of treasure-filled caves were dismissed out of hand entirely; no point sending young folk off to their doom chasing some whimsy.

But this was the College, and they didn’t do anything whimsy. Or at least, Onmund hoped not.

Soon enough the students settled down when the familiar screech of the door rose above the loud and excited conversations. Tolfdir shuffled in, carrying an impressive amount of books with a Telekinesis spell.

“Thank you for waiting, and apologies for the delay, I could have sworn I’ve misplaced all these- nevermind, nevermind,” Tolfdir waved. “I’m sure you’ve all read the circular?”

The apprentices nodded, while some mumbled, “Yes sir.”

Tolfdir clasped his hands together. “Very good, let’s move onto the announcement then, shall we?” He approached the blackboard, and pinned a map onto it. “The College was recently given permission to study an ancient Nordic ruin, Saarthal.”

Onmund’s eyes shot wide open.

He knew the name, knew the story, but he didn’t know Saarthal actually existed. Growing up, it had been a cautionary tale against the foreign powers of elves. How Ysgramor and his Companions drove out the offenders and saved the very first men who stepped upon Skyrim’s lands.

Saarthal was _real_. 

“Ah yes, Onmund.” Tolfdir gestured in his direction, and he shrunk in his seat as the entire class’ stare followed. “As a fellow Nord, I’m sure you’re familiar with the legend of Saarthal. Would you like to give your classmates an introduction to the tale?”

Onmund barely found his voice when he asked, “You mean it’s not a legend?”

Tolfdir shook his head. “Not at all, in fact, the location of the city had been known for sometime. Most researchers were wary of conducting any studies on their own due to the age of the location and the dangers it may possess. We were able to secure the location thanks to our numbers alone.”

Blood pounded in his ears and drowned out Tolfdir’s words. Saarthal was real. Ysmir’s beard, Saarthal was real?

“-Onmund?”

“Oh, yes!” He tried to find the words in Common, but the tale sounded so much more… heroic in Nordic. And clever sounding too, when the skalds always found a way to make the whole thing rhyme.

“-Ysgramor came to Skyrim with his Companions and built the first city in Skyrim, Saarthal. It was said that Skyrim didn’t even have its name yet.” He recounted the tale as best as he could, though he realized more and more than his word choices in the Common tongue had been blunt and clumsy. 

“T-the elves… I don’t know what kind of elves, I’m sorry,” he could feel the gaze of his classmates on him, waiting for him to misspeak, “B-but they found something in Saarthal and wanted to take it for themselves, or stop it? I-it’s not really clear. The story goes that the war drums were beating and Ysgramor rallied our- his people.”

Thank the Divines that Tolfdir interrupted when he did, kind as always. “As you are all aware, we have all heard stories of bloodshed and conflict amongst each other. Yet one must remember when reviewing historical texts, how different sentiments can be when compared to our contemporaries. In other words, what may have been commonly held beliefs then are frowned upon today.”

Onmund shuffled nervously in his seat. He really wished he hadn’t been the only Nord around now.

“But Onmund has done a commendable job at recounting the story- it is not so easy to recite in Common, thank you, lad.” Tolfdir returned to the map pinned on the board. “But Saarthal is still, nevertheless, a historically important place. My ancestors, and Onmund’s ancestors, founded one of the very first cities here in Skyrim.” He circled an area just outside of the Winterhold border with a long, thin pointer.

“Here, we will hopefully be able to see how ancient Nords utilized their magic, and how some of the earliest inhabitants in Skyrim survived their trip from Atmora.”

The students began to chatter excitedly once again. Onmund’s heart raced when he heard the word ‘magic’. The ancient Nords used magic? He wanted to shoot his hand up in the air, but Tolfdir kept droning on and on.

“Now, here’s where things get exciting,” Tolfdir paused, scanning over the students with those tired, warm eyes. 

“-We will all be taking a trip there next week, together with some of the senior mages.”

The Hall exploded in an uproar.

Saarthal. They’d be taking a trip to Saarthal. Mara’s mercy, Onmund could feel the wind knocked out of his lungs. Never in his wildest dreams could he ever hope to come so close to his ancestors. Such a connection would be… gods, he didn’t know how to describe it. The ancient Nords, only ever characters in books to him- real enough that he could believe they once journeyed across the sea, but so far removed from the present world. 

He could barely wrap his head around what their lives must have been like. And to see those first attempts at settling, first hand...

“Onmund?” Brelyna asked, and he jolted out of his daydream.

“Huh?”

“Is… everything alright?”

“It’s… just so strange to think. Saarthal is… it’s like the legend to my people, you know? Everyone knows the tale, they make a bedtime story out of it for children.”

“That’s… grim.” J’zargo pulled a face.

“I know, but, that’s just how important it is. We always talk about when something is made well or special, it’s like it was made in the days of Saarthal. How our ancestors did the best with what they had.”

“Reminds me of the Nerevar legend,” Brelyna added, “everyone knows it, no one likes to think it happened.”

“Exactly.” Onmund shook his head, still reeling from the shock. “Gods, Saarthal.”

And within the next week too? With the senior mages. Onmund didn’t dare hope a certain Breton mage would be joining them. 

Any thoughts of the trip vanished his mind in an instant. _'Alrek would find this interesting,'_ Onmund reasoned. He was clever like that, would probably see the value in it. 

He’ll be there, Onmund was sure of it. 

The lecture, in the end, had been a historical one. Saarthal seemed so mundane when Tolfdir showed etchings from researchers who had been able to visit. And yet, even then, it made the legend all the more lavish. How the people lived such simple lives and yet overcame a horrifying tragedy.

He wrote everything down, so fast and so excited, his letters began to loop over one another. 

“And of course,” Tolfdir then held up a rock, etched with a marking, “an important find from Saarthal.”

Onmund’s eyes widened when he realized what the marking was. Nordic runes. Old and worn enough that the once sharp edges had been rounded off, but he recognized the mark all the same. 

“ _Kaunass,_ ” he said aloud, and almost immediately realized that the class had their attention back on him. 

He found his voice easier this time. “It’s the Nordic rune of fire, the sun, and of life. Usually we mark these when there’s danger.”

“That’s right.”

And with a flick of Tolfdir’s wrist, the stone sparked to life, busting into flames.

“The ancient Nords knew a thing or two about enchanting, which is why even today, many Enchanters still use our ancestor’s runes to bless their weapons, armors and yes, even their bed slippers, with powerful effects.”

Onmund watched, captivated by the sight before him. Never in any story had he heard such common mentions of magic, when it was only ever reserved for the elves or evil, wicked characters. Or when they aided the hero, they were often weaker, strange folk who only ever stared too hard at the sky and made no sense.

Yet here, before him, was proof that the ancient Nords- his ancestors- used magic. Someone, thousands of years ago, used those runes, Nordic runes, in their everyday lives.

“The ancient Nords believed magic was a gift from the Old Gods, and those who wielded it, were clever, gifted folk indeed.” From where he stood in the front of the class, Tolfdir smiled reassuringly at Onmund, and Onmund found himself smiling back, at ease for the first time in a while.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone! Thank you SO much for waiting. Moth and I have been incredibly busy, and IRL has been nothing short of a bearcat to deal with. But here we are with a polished new chapter, ready and waiting! As always, we'd love to hear your feedback and what you thought of this newest instalment! <3

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! I've got a few chapters ready to be posted, so I'd LOVE to hear what you guys think ♥


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